Magi'i of Cyador
by
L. E. Modesitt, Jr


Copyright 2000 Edited by David G. Hartwell Jacket art by Darrell K.
Sweet Jacket design by Carol Russo Design A Tor Book Published by Tom
Doherty Associates, LLC 175 Fifth Avenue New York, NY 10010 Tor Books
on the World Wide Web: http://www.tor.com

From Inner Cover:

L. E. Modesitt, Jr."  is one of the standard names in fantasy entering
the new decade, and his most famous series is the Saga of Recluce. Each
novel fills in pieces of the history of this land where Chaos and Order
strive to maintain a magical balance.

Magi'i of Cyador marks the beginning of a new tale from deep within the
rich depths of the history of Recluce.  This is the story of Lorn, a
talented boy born into a family of Magi'i.  A fastidious student of
remarkable talent, Lorn lacks the single most coveted attribute
required of a Magus of Cyador: unquestionable loyalty.  Lorn is too
independent for his own good.

So Lorn is forced to become a lancer officer, and he's sent to the
frontier to fight off the all-too-frequent barbarian raids-a career
that comes with a fifty percent mortality rate.  His enemies don't
expect him to survive.... Lorn is a fresh, new character who will
enrich one of the most important fantasy series of the decade: the Saga
of Recluce.

Robert Edward Janes In memoriam, for the dreams he had.

CHARACTERS

Kien Magus, Senior Lector, "Fourth Magus"

Lorn Son of the Magus Kien

Vernt Younger son of Kien

Jerial Eldest child and daughter of Kien

Myryan Youngest child and daughter of Kien

Nyryah Consort of Kien

Toziel'elth'alt'mer Emperor of Cyador

Ryenyel Consort-Empress of Cyador

MAGI'I

Chyenfel First Magus and High Lector

Kharl Second Magus and Senior Lector

Liataphi Third Magus and Senior Lector

Abram Senior Lector

Ciesrt Student/ Magus

Jysnet Lector

Hyrist Senior Lector

Rustyl Student/ Magus

Tyrsal Student/ Magus

LANCERS

Rynst - Majer-Commander, Mirror Lancers

Luss Captain-Commander, Mirror Lancers

Allyrn Student/ Lancer Undercaptain

Brevyl Sub-Majer [commanding at Isahl]

Dettaur Student/ Lancer Officer

Eghyr Captain

Helkar Captain

Jostyn Captain

Juist - Undercaptain

Kyl - Undercaptain

Maran - Majer [Patrol Commander, Geliendra]

Meylyd Commander [Geliendra]

Thiataphi Commander [Syadtar]

OTHERS

Bluoyal - Merchanter Advisor to the Emperor

Dustyn Factor in spirits [Jakaafra]

Eileyt Enumerator

Fuyol Head, Yuryan Clan

Ryalth Woman mer chanter

Shevelt - Merchanter heir [Yuryan Clan]

Veljan - Merchanter [Yuryan Clan]

Part I Lorn'elth, Cyad

The man wears white trousers and a white tunic, belted with white
leather and secured with a glistening white metallic buckle.  His boots
are white, including the thick leather soles, and his hands are encased
in white gloves.  The only items of color upon his body are the pair of
gold star-bursts-one on each of the short square collars of his
tunic.

A dark-haired boy wearing shimmering gray trousers and a short-sleeved
shirt of the same shimmering fabric holds the man's left hand.  Both
walk along a corridor.  The floors, walls, and ceiling are all of white
granite, except for one window of a glass-like substance so dark it
appears nearly black.  The black window is on the man's right, exactly
halfway between the two metal doors, each also of shimmering white
metal.

When the pair reaches the window, the man halts, bends, and lifts the
boy, holding him so that their heads are almost even with each other.
The man inclines his head toward the dark expanse of glass.  "There.
There is the First Tower."

The dark-haired youth, his amber eyes shielded by the ancient dark
glass, stares at the glittering trapezoid of light beyond the wall. The
dark transparency filters out all that lies beyond the wall except for
the blistering light that is the Tower.

"One day," says the man, "one day, Lorn'elth... you and your brother
will be Magi'i of the Rational Stars.  One day, you will direct the
workings of Towers of Light to harness the power of chaos and to
continue to bring peace and prosperity to Cyad and to all of Cyador."

Abruptly, the boy shivers, then stiffens, though his eyes do not leave
the chaos light of the Tower.

"To be of the Magi'i-it is a long and difficult struggle."  The man
smiles at his son, and even his sun-golden eyes smile.  "But as you
grow older, you will see that it is worth the effort, for nothing
compares to the glory that is Cyad, and the peace and the grace of her
people."

The magus slowly lowers Lorn'elth to the polished white stone floor and
takes his son's hand once more.  They continue along the corridor to
the second door, where the father raises his hand.  A flicker of golden
energy flashes from a point just beyond his gloves to the door.  Then
he slides the door into its recess-to his left.  The two enter the
second corridor, and the magus closes the door behind them.

Another window awaits them midway down the second white stone
corridor.

At this window, the man again lifts his son, speaking softly as he
does.  "You will be the ones who will transfer the pure chaos energy
from the towers to the fireships, to the fire wagons and to the fire
lances of Cyador.  You will ensure that the fair city remains so, and
that her people bless the Emperor and the Magi'i of the Rational
Stars."

Serious-eyed, the boy watches through the darkened glass-not so dark as
that in the first corridor-as the six-wheeled fire wagon rolls silently
into the shimmering enclosure that flanks the chamber holding the
mighty tower.  Figures scurry and remove the square cells from the rear
of the vehicle, replacing them with other cells that almost glitter.
Then the fire wagon rolls out, and another rolls in and halts.

"This is the heart of Cyad, and Cyador, and it can be yours,
Lorn'elth."  The father lowers his son once more.  "It will be
yours."

The two return as they came, their heavy boots whispering but slightly
on the hard stone of the corridor.

II

Rising above the bay and the Great Western Ocean to the south are puffy
white clouds, clouds not dark enough to forecast rain at any time soon,
nor high enough to block the sun that casts its mid-day autumn light
upon the playing field that had been carved from the hillside
generations earlier.  There on the field, with a gentle sea-breeze
cooling them, a score of students alternate jerky bursts of speed with
sudden stops, their polished wooden mallets glistening as they jockey
for position on the reddish surface.  All wear white trousers and under
tunics but the under tunics bear green collars and green borders upon
the sleeves.

"Lorn!"  calls one student as the polished wooden oval skitters from
his mallet toward another youth.

"Thanks!"  With his dark-brown hair and wiry frame, Lorn is neither the
largest nor the smallest on the playing field, but he streaks past a
defender, his mallet almost lazily precise as it strikes the oval that
is weighted unevenly.  Lorn slips one way, and the oval flashes the
other way, yet both Lorn and the oval meet at full speed beyond the
defender as Lorn sprints inward and toward the trapezoidal frame in the
middle of the circular field of play.  His eyes take in the last
defender and the smaller redheaded player dashing toward the goal. Lorn
smiles and flicks his wrist, calling, "Tyrsal, it's yours!"

Lorn's mallet strikes the oval, and it skitters over the packed clay
toward Tyrsal.

The small and redheaded Tyrsal darts around the taller and more
muscular young defender and swings his mallet.  The oval spins, but
lifts off the clay and accelerates toward the trapezoidal goal.  When
it strikes to one side of the goal frame, it veers sideways and skids
into the net of the opening.

"Goal!"  The redhead jumps up in glee.  "I got by you, Dett!"

"That's the last time, Tyrsal!"  The tall and heavily muscled blond
student drops his mallet and tackles the redhead, whose polished wooden
mallet skids across the smooth red clay as both students lurch toward
the ground.

Despite Tyrsal's struggles, Dett handily dumps the smaller youth onto
the clay and raises an arm as if to strike Tyrsal.

"Bruggage!  Bruggage!"  Four other youths jump on top of the two who
struggle.

The dark-haired Lorn is the second to slam into the pile, but the first
to put his shoulder and then his elbow into the midsection of the
larger Dett.  "...oooff..."

Dett struggles to take his hands away from the squirming Tyrsal, to
fend off the hidden attack on himself.

A low voice whispers in the muscular boy's ear, "Don't do it again,
Dett.  Ever."

"Says who?"  The bully gets his knees under him and one hand on the
clay and starts to elbow his way clear, unsure of who has spoken to
him.

Snap... snap!

The other students fall away from the larger figure, who bellows, then
staggers upright holding an injured hand, coddling two fingers that
have already begun to swell.  "Barbarians!  Sheep-loving
swill-drinkers!"  Dett turns toward the students who had piled on.
"Cowards!  You just wait... You'll see."

"Dett... hurt his hand."  "couldn't happen to a better fellow..."
"bullied enough... deserved it..."  "careful... get you..."

Even before he rises, neither the first nor the last, Lorn slips the
polished pair of wooden rods back inside his belt.  After he stands, he
limps slightly as he walks toward the mallet he abandoned, bending
gracefully and scooping it up left-handed.

Tyrsal, the last to scramble up, quickly extinguishes a grin and avoids
looking at the injured Dett.

"That's it!  Over here!"  orders the schoolyard proctor, a tallish man
with a pointed goatee and wavy black hair that stands away from his
head.  "All of you.  You know the rules!  Bruggages are forbidden!"

The score of students slouch toward the proctor and the columns of the
low white stone building behind him.  None move to brush away the
smears of reddish clay upon their student garments, nor lift their eyes
to the shimmering white of the Palace that stands farther to the south
and which dominates the gradual slope rising from the harbor, nor even
to the white structures that lie uphill of the school, the dwellings of
the senior Magi'i and Mirror Lancer commanders.

"Line up!  All of you."

Lorn somehow materializes in the second rank, nearly in the middle, the
expression on his face one of mild concern.

"What happened?  How did Dettaur'alt's hand get injured?"  demands the
proctor.  His eyes travel the youths, picking out a stocky student.
"Allyrn'alt?  You always know."

"Scr... Dett fell on Tyrsal, and everyone tripped in the bruggage. When
we got untangled, Dett was holding his hand.  I guess he fell on it." 
Allyrn'alt's face is carefully blank.

"Tyrsal'elth?"

"I made the goal, and I jumped around.  I must have bumped into Dett,
scr.  We all got tangled in the bruggage.  Maybe Dett's hand got kicked
by someone's boot."  The small redhead looks apologetically at the
proctor.

"Ciesrt'elth?"

"Noser  I wasn't even in the bruggage, scr."  "never is..." murmurs
someone.

"Quiet!"  The proctor turns to another.  "Shalk'mer?"

"Scr... I got tangled up, but I didn't see anything."  The square-faced
merchant's son looks directly at the proctor.

"Lorn'elth?  You wouldn't know... of course, you wouldn't."  The
proctor shakes his head.  "You never see anything."

"I'm sorry, scr."  Lorn looks contritely at the proctor.

"All of you, except Dettaur'alt, get back to your studies."  The
proctor sighs and motions for the muscular injured student to follow
him toward the healer's room.

Before he turns to follow the proctor, Dett's eyes rake over the other
students, but each in turn meets his eyes openly, without flinching.

III

Cyador is a paradox, one wrapped in an enigma, and offered as a riddle
to the world it dominates by its sheer force of being.  No land, no
ruler, can contest the might of Cyador, yet its people look no
different from other folk, except by their raiment and their
deportment.

The Towers of Chaos descended from the Rational Stars, yet they serve
those upon the land and water, those who can but observe the distant
chaos of those stars, yet who can bring such chaos upon their foes.

For does the White Empire not have the fireships of war that can
destroy all other vessels?  Yet the trade vessels that dock at Cyad and
Fyrad and Summerdock are carried there by sails, and not by the power
of chaos.  Do not the fire wagons roll endlessly across the finest of
granite roads that link all of the Empire together, carrying passengers
and cargoes smoothly and speedily?  Yet even within mighty Cyad, are
not the white streets of the great city filled, not with fire wagons
but carts and carriages pulled by horses, by men on horseback and women
on foot?

Does not the Emperor, Protector of the Steps to Paradise, Ruler of the
Towers of Chaos, command the fire lances before which quail the
barbarians of the north and east?  Yet those fire lances are borne by
lancers who ride the same horses as do the barbarians, and those
lancers also bear blades, even if such blades are of white cupridium,
against which the poor iron of Candar cannot stand.

Do not the towers of chaos send forth light so bright that it must be
shielded by solid stone?  Yet the Palace of Eternal Light is lit by the
diffuse chaos of the sun and the lesser chaos of oil lamps.

Is not the Emperor himself a figure of might and majesty?  Yet all in
power fear that an emperor may again arise who is truly mighty, like
the one who is seldom mentioned by the high in Cyad.

Maintaining this paradox, this enigma that is Cyad, that is the task of
the Magi'i, and the duty of every magus who has ever lived and ever
will live, now and forevermore.... Paradox of Empire

Bern'elth, Magus First

IV

In the blessing and warmth of chaos, in the prosperity which it
engenders, and for the preservation of all the best of our heritage,
whether of elthage, alt age or me rage let us give thanks for what we
receive."  The silver-haired man at the north end of the table lifts
his head and smiles.

The family is seated around the dining table on the covered upper
balcony, from where they can look downhill and south directly at the
harbor-and to the west and slightly uphill at the Palace of Eternal
Light.  Although the sun has set, the sky remains the purple that
precedes night, and the white stone piers of the harbor glitter above
the darkness of the Great Western Ocean.  The Palace gleams a
shimmering white-both from the white sunstone from which it was
constructed all too many years before and from the innumerable lamps
which bathe its endless corridors and vaulting halls in continuous
light.

The dining table around which the family sits is lit but dimly by two
lamps set in gleaming cupridium brackets, each affixed to a pillar, the
two closest to each end of the table.  None of those seated appear to
be affected by the dimness.  The mahogany-haired Nyryah, who sits at
the end of the table opposite the silver-haired Kien'elth, lifts a
silver tray that holds both dark bread and sun-nut bread and tenders it
to the sandy-haired young man on her left.  "Go ahead, Vernt."

"Ah... thank you."

"And don't take all the sun-nut bread," suggests Myryan from where she
sits across from the still-lanky Vernt.  "We like it, too."

"There's plenty there, children," suggests Nyryah, "and there's another
loaf in the kitchen."

Vernt grins and takes one slice of each bread, then passes the tray to
Lorn, who takes only a single slice of dark bread before passing the
tray to his father.  Kien'elth, like his younger son, takes one slice
of each, and hands the tray to Jerial, dark-haired, and the eldest
child.  She, like Lorn, takes but a slice of dark bread, and smiles
across at Lorn as she hands the tray to Myryan, also black-haired, and
the youngest of the four siblings.  Myryan takes a single slice of
sun-nut bread and returns the tray to her mother.

The fowl casserole that had been set before Kien'elth makes a circuit
of the table, but all helpings are so similar in size that they would
have to have been weighed for an outsider to determine which is the
largest-or the smallest.  After the casserole comes the dish of
buttered and nutted beans.

When Myryan sets down the serving spoon for the beans, all six begin to
eat, silently for a moment, until each has had at least one mouthful of
something.

"You were a little late, dear," suggests Nyryah.

"We had to chaos-charge a second complement of fire wagons replies
Kien'elth.  "The two new companies of Mirror Lancers are being sent
along the Great Eastern Highway tomorrow.  The barbarians of the
northeast have tried to attack the cuprite mines.  While they were
thrown back across the Hills of Endless Grass, the Emperor has
determined that the lancers of the northeast shall be more greatly
reinforced to carry the message to the barbarians that they may be
reminded of the futility of such attacks."

Myryan smiles.

"You find that amusing?"  asks Vernt.

"The name's amusing," she admits.  "Nothing's endless, not even the
Rational Stars.  So how can grass be endless?"

"The barbarians are endless," says Vernt.  "Every year there are more
of them."

"More doesn't mean endless."

"And they're just as stupid every year.  Tens of scores of them try to
cross the border, and most of them die."  Vernt looks at his father.
"There must have been more than usual if you had to do more
chaos-charging."

"I was told that the lancers have it well in hand," answers his sire.

"And they will push the barbarians back across the not-so-endless Grass
Hills," Myryan says, "no matter what the barbarians call the grass."

"I do believe we've heard this before," suggests Kien'elth politely.
"We decided the name was a barbarian affectation."  He clears his
throat, then takes another mouthful of the fowl casserole, nodding as
he tastes it.

"We just ought to take over all of Candar-the western half, anyway,"
says Vernt.  "That way, we wouldn't have to worry about the smelly
barbarians."

"The chaos-towers can't be moved," Lorn points out.  "That's why
Emperor-"

"Lorn," interjects Kien'elth quickly.  "Not at dinner."

"Yes, scr."

"We don't need to move the towers," continues Vernt, seemingly
oblivious to his father's warning to Lorn.  "The barbarians' iron
blades are so soft that a cupridium blade cuts through any of their
weapons."  The younger son snorts.  "We don't need fire wagons and
highways to conquer them."

"No-but would you want to live in a mud-brick hut or a tent?" Kien'elth
laughs.  "You wouldn't get cooking like this, or cities like Cyad or
Fyrad or Summerdock."

"We've heard this discussion before, too," interjects Jerial.  "Cyador
already has more land than we'll ever need, and so do the barbarians.
They don't attack from need, but from perversity.  They want to take
what we've built, because they're too lazy and too stupid to make
things for themselves."

"They do not have chaos-towers, nor could they fabricate them if they
wanted to," says her father gently.

"They don't have to live like swine," counters Vernt.  "You can smell
them from kays away."

"They weren't born with your advantages," Kien'elth points out.

"We've sent teachers out to the north and east."  Vernt's voice rises.
"And those that weren't killed had to kill the barbarians to escape
with their lives...."

"Maybe they don't want to learn," suggests Jerial, with a hint of a
laugh in her voice.  "They don't like books as much as you do."

Lorn quietly finishes his casserole, and, while the others are looking
at Vernt and Jerial, and while his mother has slipped away from the
table to bring the dessert platter, he slips a slice of sun-nut bread
from the tray and onto his platter.  He eats it in precise motions
before finally speaking.  "They still think we took their land."

"We didn't take anything, did we?"  asks Myryan.  "I thought most of
Cyador was the Accursed Forest before the founders came, and it killed
either the barbarians or us whenever it could.  They didn't live here.
They couldn't have lived here."  She shakes her head.  "It doesn't make
sense.  We're not using land that they ever could have farmed or herded
on.  I agree with Jerial.  They're just lazy."

"They are what they are," replies Kien'elth, "and we aren't going to
change that.  We can only deal with our own lives."  He clears his
throat.  "Lorn... have you ever met Aleyar?  She's Lector Liataphi's
next-to-youngest daughter?"

"He's met them all."  Vernt chortles.

Lorn manages not to flush.  "She is blonde, I believe, and quite well
spoken."

"I told you so," Vernt hisses.

"Father..."  Jerial begins.

Kien'elth turns to his eldest daughter.  "Liataphi has no sons.  I am
not asking Lorn to consort with her.  I am asking if he would at least
talk to the young lady.  There's no harm in seeing if he likes an
eligible young woman."  "and it would be kind," Myryan says with a sad
smile.

"Because her older sister Syreal ran off with that mer chanter and that
means that unless she consorts with a Magi'i she'll lose her standing
in the Magi'i?"  asks Jerial.

"It's true, isn't it?"  counters Myryan.  "We're lucky.  We have
brothers who are carrying on as Magi'i.  Aleyar isn't, and she's
sweet."

"You know her?"  asks Nyryah.

"I like her," replies Myryan.  "She's too gentle to be consorted to a
lancer or a mer chanter  She looks at Lorn.  "And she is pretty."

Lorn shifts his weight in his chair almost imperceptibly, then smiles.
"I'll make a point of talking to her."

"That's all I ask," Kien'elth says, as he turns and smiles at Myryan.
"Lector Kharl'elth said that the only young lady his son ever talked
about was you."

"Ciesrt?"  Myryan's expression reverts to one of polite interest.

Lorn glances from her to their father, who in turn watches the
wavy-haired Myryan closely.

"Ciesrt'elth," corrects Kien'elth.  "You know him, Lorn."

"He's in my student group," concedes Lorn.

"He works hard," adds Vernt.  "Lector Hyrist'elth says he wishes all
the students worked as hard."

Across from Lorn, Myryan's face tightens ever so slightly.

"He's pretty serious," Lorn adds.

"These are serious times," Kien'elth begins, clearing his throat in the
way that Lorn knows a long pontification is about to begin.

"It sounds like a good time for sweets."  Nyryah sets the wide
white-glazed platter in the center of the table, then re-seats herself.
"Baked pear apple creamed tarts."  She smiles at her consort.  "You can
talk about serious times after dessert, dear."

Kien'elth laughs.  "Undermined at my own table."

"A good dessert doesn't wait," counters Nyryah, "and if you do, you
won't have any tarts with this bunch drooling over them."

Myryan and Vernt laugh.  Lorn and Jerial nod minutely at each other,
but the corners of Lorn's mouth turn up ever so slightly as he glances
at the warm smile his mother has bestowed upon their father.

"Outstanding!"  Kien'elth beams as he takes the first tart.  "The
barbarians and the serious folk have nothing like this."

"They might."  Vernt frowns, as if in thought, then adds, "But they
probably don't."

"You can't even argue just on one side, Vernt," says Jerial after a
mouthful of her tart.  "Maybe you should become a counselor.  That's
what they do-they argue both sides of everything."

"What about something like being the Hand of the Emperor?"  asks Myryan
guilelessly.

"Myryan," cautions Nyryah.  "One doesn't talk about the Hand."

"Especially since no one knows who he is," adds Jerial dryly.  "That's
not wise."

Kien'elth, his mouth filled with the creamy tart, shakes his head and
finally swallows.  "Argumentative counselors get sent as envoys to the
barbarian lands.  Besides, no Magi'i should stoop to being a counselor.
Mostly, they mediate between mer chanters

Amused smiles fill the faces around the table, smiles followed by
silence as they enjoy the tarts.

"There are a few tarts left," offers Nyryah when all have finished,
glancing toward Lorn, "and since you didn't have as much of the sun-nut
bread..."  She looks at Vernt, on whose face a frown appears and
quickly vanishes, "and since you look positively starved, Vernt..."

Myryan raises her eyebrows.  "and you're still growing, youngest
daughter," Nyryah smiles at Myryan and concludes, "there are enough
extra tarts for each of you."

"The last thing I need is another tart," observes Jerial, glancing down
at her slender waist.  "I should not have had the one."

"You could eat three every night, and it would scarce show," counters
her mother, "but I know how you feel."

Kien'elth glances at his consort.  Nyryah raises her eyebrows, and he
closes his mouth quietly.

Lorn eats a second tart, deftly, with motions that are neither hasty
nor dawdling, yet leave no crumbs upon his fingers or his mouth.
"Excellent.  You must tell Elthya."  He smiles at his mother.  "If I
don't first."

"You'll not only tell her, Lorn, you'll charm her out of a third," says
Jerial.

"A fourth," suggests Myryan.  "I'd wager a silver he had one this
afternoon when they were cooling."  Her warm smile turns toward Lorn.

He shrugs.  "It might be."

His sisters laugh.  Even Vernt, seated beside Myryan, smiles.  So does
Nyryah, although the mahogany-haired woman's smile is more knowingly
ironic.

As the family rises and as Elthya and the shorter serving girl step
forward out of the shadows to clear the table, Kien'elth beckons to
Lorn.  "I'd like to talk with you for a few moments, Lorn."

"Yes, scr."  Lorn, slightly taller and slightly broader across the
chest than his father or his younger brother, follows Kien'elth along
the outside upper arched portico until they reach the open door of the
study.

The study is lit by the pair of oil lamps at each end of the pale oak
table-desk.  Their silvered mantels-and their separation-cast an even
glow across the room so that the shadows are faint against the warmth
of the blond wood panels that comprise the walls and the amber leather
of the volumes set in the bookcase that is built into the wall beside
the desk.  The scents of frysya and baked pear apples linger in the
room, reminding Lorn of the glazed tarts that had followed dinner.

Kien'elth turns and stands between his desk, empty except for the
lamps, and the stand that holds the shimmering white cupridium pen that
is yet another mark of his position as a magus.  The polished white oak
case that holds his chaos glass rests on the small octagonal table to
the right of the desk proper.

Lorn's eyes pass over the glass, though he has often felt its power
when his father has employed it to observe him from afar.

After a moment of silence, the magus turns to his dark-haired son.  "I
spoke with Lector Hyrist'elth."

Lorn nods, waits for his father to continue.

"He is not displeased with your studies, Lorn, but he is not pleased,
either.  He and I both feel that while you learn all that comes before
you, and more, you learn because it is easier for you to learn than to
oppose us."  Kien'elth smiles.  "I have seen you on the korfal field.
There, you are unfettered, almost joyous.  I would wish you to show
such joy in learning and in studies."

"I learn everything that I can, scr," Lorn replies carefully, knowing
he must choose his words with care, for his father can sense any hint
of untruth-as can anyone within the family-and Lorn does not wish to
have his father use his chaos glass to follow him continually, though
he can sense when Kien'elth-or any of the Magi'i-seek him with a glass.
Most of his actions are innocent enough, but there is little sense in
provoking his father into deeper inquiries.  "It is true that,
presently, learning for me is not so joyous, but I will persevere
until, I hope, it is such."

"All Cyador rests on the Magi'i," says the older man.  "Without the
chaos towers, the fire wagons would not run, and neither lancers nor
foot nor crops could be carried to where they must go.  The barges
could not run the Great Canal.  Without the chaos chisels, the stone
for the roads would have to be quarried by hand, and it would take
years to pave but a kay of road.  The Great Eastern Highway alone...
Without chaos glasses, we could not see the storms or the larger
barbarian forces,..."

Lorn listens politely as his father continues.  "and that is why it is
a great honor and a worthy duty to become a magus, and a goal for which
you should strive."

"I understand that, father."

"Lorn... you nod politely, and you apply yourself diligently enough,
and you have mastered the art of chaos transfer, indeed more than
mastered it, and you have even learned the basics of healing from
Jerial, though that be more of a serving art than a magely one, and you
have, I know, the skill to truth read and that is something but a
handful ever fully master."

"Is that not what I am required to doser

"You are capable of more, far more.  You have the talent to become one
of the great mages.  But that requires more than talent."  Kien'elth
looks squarely at his oldest son.  "I would hope that you would see
such."  He shrugs.  "I have told Lector Hyrist'elth that, if you do not
show great love of your studies, I will seek an officer ship for you
with the Mirror Lancers.  You possess the skills to direct the lances
of an entire company already, and perhaps the time on the frontiers
would rekindle your love of chaos."

Lorn continues to meet his sire's searching study.  "I will do my best
for the year ahead, scr, but I can promise only diligence and hard
work."

"That I know you will provide, Lorn."  Kien'elth shakes his head
slowly.  "But each one of the Magi'i must possess the very fire of
chaos within himself or the chaos with which he works will consume him
as surely as a fire lance will consume whatever its fire strikes.  If
you cannot find such passion, no matter how great your skill, you would
be better as an officer of the Mirror Lancers than as the highest of
the Magi'i."  His lined face and silver and hair do not hide the
sadness within him as he beholds his eldest son.

"I understand, father.  I will do what I can do."  Kien'elth nods.  "I
know."

Lorn cannot disguise the frown as he closes the polished wooden door
behind him and steps from the study into the open pillared corridor
that rings the upper levels of the house.  As he had sensed, Jerial
waits in the shadows.  Lorn turns to his older sister.

"How is Father?"  asks Jerial.  "He was quiet at dinner, and you're
frowning.  It must have been a serious discussion."

"It was.  We discussed how, without the Magi'i, the Great Eastern
Highway-and the Great North Highway-would still be under construction,"
Lorn finishes with a smile, "since even the North Highway's length is
four hundred and ninety three kays.  We also talked about how I should
build a new chaos tower when I finish my studies."

"Lorn... someday you're going to have to be serious."

"I am serious."  The dark-haired young man smiles at his older sister.
"I'm always serious."  The smile fades.  "Too serious in my studies for
father.  He wishes that I approach them as a lover."

"Well..."  Jerial grins, "you've already had enough experience there,
brother dear.  Surely... surely..."

Lorn laughs.  "Ah... if I could."

Jerial smiles, then slips away.

After a moment, Lorn shrugs and takes the outside steps down into the
rear garden, past the fruit trees and the grape arbor.  He pauses by
the rear gate, in the shielded darkness, and concentrates on his
adaptation of chaos transfer.

Hssst!  A small fire bolt arcs from his fingers onto the white stone,
splashing like liquid flame, rearing up a good two spans into the
gloom.

Lorn quickly steps on the twig that has caught fire and stamps out the
small fire with his heavy white boots.  "Careful..."  He glances
around, but there are no sounds beyond the murmurs that drift from the
servants' quarters beyond the garden.  He should have used even less
chaos.

After a last look at the house, he leaves by the rear gate, and walks
down the paved and spotless alley to the lower street, above which
tower the three levels of the family dwelling.

Lorn strides along the Road of Perpetual Light, eastward, away from the
taverns frequented by the higher-ranking lancers and the cider-houses
that cater to the students.  The cylar trees overhanging the
white-paved street whisper in the night breeze, and the autumn perfume
of the purple arymids fills the cool air.

Lorn senses red-dark chaos... or trouble, and wonders what it might be.
His eyes note little distinction between twilight and night as he
strides purposefully eastward, almost welcoming the reddish-whiteness
that he nears-after the talk with his father.

A couple walks toward him, nearly in the white and sparkling center of
the wide walkway flanking the road, and Lorn can see from shimmering
blue attire that both are from the mer chanters  The man is slender,
and his attention is upon the red-haired woman he escorts.  Chaos lurks
behind them, in the hulking figure that follows, apparently unseen in
the shadowed darkness of the trees.

Lorn eases onto the same side of the road as the skulker who moves
toward the couple, but the student magus is too late as the heavy and
tall man leaps and strikes the male mer chanter with a blunt club or
some such.  The man collapses in a heap, and the woman turns to flee,
but the attacker grabs her arm.

"Halthor!  Let go of me!"  she screams.  "Help!  The Patrol!"

The man called Halthor drops the club to muffle her screams with his
oversized hand.

Lorn steps out of the shadows, then ducks and picks up the truncheon as
Halthor releases the woman.  Lorn moves as if he had seen the large
fist coming and steps under the giant's arms, bringing the short wooden
truncheon into the vee of the man's ribs.  Something cracks.  The giant
gasps, standing there immobile.

Lorn's eyes glitter gold for but an instant as he speaks.  "I believe
that all would be best if you jumped off the southernmost pier in the
harbor and inhaled as much water as you can."

The taller man shivers, then turns, breathing laboriously, and begins
to walk westward along the Road of Perpetual Light, ignoring the fallen
trader, the woman mer chanter and Lorn.

Despite the sudden knife-like headache that has shivered through his
skull, Lorn lowers the truncheon and turns toward the woman in
shimmering blue, his voice filled with concern.  "Are you all right?"

"Ah... I think so.  Yes."  She does not quite shiver, as she bends
toward the fallen man.

Through slightly blurred vision, Lorn sees that she is a redhead, and
lightly freckled, with creamy skin, and a full figure under the
shimmering blue tunic.

"What did you do?"  she asks.  "He... just turned away and left."

"Just offered an opinion...."  Lorn's laugh sounds easy.  "He won't be
bothering anyone soon."  The warm and friendly smile appears as he also
steps toward the fallen junior trader.  "We need to attend to your
friend."

The male trader squints, rolls to his knees, glances up at the redhead,
then at Lorn.  "What did you do to Halthor?  He'd like as kill you,
student magus or not."  He slowly rises to his feet, but he shivers and
staggers.

Lorn extends a hand.  "As I told your lady friend, I offered my opinion
to the fellow, that he take himself elsewhere."

"He's never heeded anyone's advice before."  The trader groans as he
straightens up.  "Cracked in my skull."

"This... young man," says the woman, "offered it rather persuasively.
Halthor was almost doubled over.  He has a cracked rib or two,
perhaps."

The male trader lowers his head and holds it in both hands.  "My head's
splitting."

"I'm sure it only feels that way," says the woman.

Lorn's fingers brush the man's skull.

"That's better," admits the wounded trader.

Somehow the slight healing Lorn can offer the trader also lessens his
own headache, if marginally.

"Are you a healer, young scr?"  asks the woman.

"Me?"  Lorn shakes his head ingenuously.  "I've picked up some from my
older sister, who is, but I'm afraid I'm poor in comparison to her." He
looks eastward, along the white stones of the road, past two couples
who are strolling in a leisurely fashion down the cross-street toward
the pavilions that wait on the beach front park.  "I think you do need
to lie down before long.  Are your... quarters far from here?"

"No.  Just two streets up."  The trader takes a step and pales, then
takes another.

"Are you sure you're all right, Alyet?"  asks the woman.

"For two streets... yes."

Lorn takes the man's arm once more.  "Just lean on me."

"And me."  The woman takes his other arm, and the three walk slowly
eastward until they reach an archway on the uphill side of the way.

"There..."  mumbles Alyet.  "There."

The woman and Lorn guide the trader up three steps and toward a
darkened doorway to the left.  She fumbles a shining brass key from
Alyet's belt wallet and unlocks the door.

Once inside, they cross a small sitting room that holds but a small
table with two chairs, and a low settee under the high window.  A
sleeping chamber barely big enough for the bed and a chest lies through
a narrow archway.

They help Alyet lower himself onto the bed that is draped with a dark
blue coverlet.

"Are you sure he'll be all right?"  asks the woman.

"He has some bad bruises, and a lump on his skull, but nothing's
broken, I think," Lorn ventures, "and his head will ache for days."

"Ryalth... be careful... sorry... don't think I can see you home,"
Alyet apologizes.

"I'll make sure she's safe,;" Lorn promises.  "Don't you worry."

Ryalth raises her well-formed but narrow eyebrows.  She does not
protest as they leave Alyet's quarters.

Once they are back on the Road of Eternal Light, standing beneath the
arch of curved white stone-merely alabaster, and not sunstone-Lorn
turns to Ryalth, "We should decide what we should do tonight."

Her eyebrows arch.  "I do not know you, scr, and you appear to be a
student."

"I am indeed a student, but that's all the more reason for you not to
worry.  Besides, you scarcely need to end the evening on such an
upsetting note."  Lorn takes the young woman's hand and smiles
winningly.

Cool winter sunlight angles through the high windows and strikes the
age- and chaos-whitened granite walls well above the heads of the five
figures in the discussion room, illuminating the space with an
indirectly intense light.  Four student Magi'i sit on straight-backed
chairs facing the Lector who stands before them in shimmering white
tunic, trousers, belt, and boots.

Lorn wonders, not for the first time, whether the Lector's smallclothes
shimmer as well, even though he knows his father's do not-but somehow,
a Lector who monitors his studies is more forbidding.

Ciesrt'elth shifts his weight in his chair, and it creaks.  Lector
Abram'elth ignores the sound and looks across the group of four with
eyes that glow golden, as do the eyes of many of the senior Magi'i.
"The time has come for you to once again observe a chaos tower, this
time in light of the knowledge that you have acquired and with all your
senses, and not just your eyes.  You will be escorted in pairs.
Ciesrt'elth and Rustyl'elth will be first.  Tyrsal'elth and Lorn'elth
will be the second group.  You two in the second group will wait
here."

After the other three leave and the golden oak door closes, Tyrsal
glances at Lorn.  "Why would it look different now?  The tower, I
mean?"

"We've seen one before, and we've seen the drawings.  It probably looks
the same, just like the drawings, except it would have to glow with
chaos.  It is a chaos tower.  That's probably what the Lector wants to
know-whether we can sense the chaos."  Lorn smiles and laughs gently.

"Maybe it doesn't look like that at all with chaos senses.  Maybe we
just thought we saw a tower before."

"What would be the point of deceiving us about that?  It would just be
a waste of time."

"They say that none of the halls in the Palace of Eternal Light are
actually the way people draw them," Tyrsal counters.  "And that they
change them all the time."

"That's different.  Anyone can request an audience with the Emperor or
his Voice or his Advisors.  They don't know who might be coming in, and
I suppose the Emperor cannot trust-anyone.  Except the Hand, and that's
because no one knows who he is.  The senior and more talented Magi'i
could use a chaos glass to scree the Palace.  That's why they have
lancers and fire lances behind the screens throughout the Palace.
Here... the only ones who see the towers are the Magi'i, and the older
students."

"Have you... a chaos glass?"  Tyrsal stumbles over his words.

"Hardly.  If my father didn't discipline me for that, the Lectors
certainly would, and I'm not sure father wouldn't be worse."

"Ah..."  Tyrsal swallows, then quickly asks, "What about the workings
of the fireships and the fire wagons  They're all sealed, and anyone
besides a magus who opens them gets chaos-fried."

"Exactly," suggests Lorn.

"I suppose you're right," Tyrsal concedes.

"Maybe I'm not, but we'll find out soon enough."

"Do you know if we're going to see the same tower or another tower for
the Magi'i?"

"The same, I'd imagine."

"They all have to be close, don't they?"

Lorn shrugs.  "They could be anywhere in the Quarter.  They do have to
be surrounded by the heavy granite and sunstone, but everything in the
Quarter of the Magi'i is built that way."

"That's true."  Tyrsal lapses into silence.

In time, the door to the discussion room opens, and Lector Abram'elth
follows the other two students back inside.  He does not close the
wooden door to the corridor.

"Not a word," the Lector says to Ciesrt and Rustyl, "not until we
depart the room."  He beckons to Lorn and Tyrsal.

The remaining two students rise, and Ciesrt and Rustyl re-seat
themselves in the cool mid-day winter light that the very stones of the
building have amplified in some indefinable fashion.

Without speaking, the Lector leads Lorn and Tyrsal out of the
discussion room and along the corridor toward the private study rooms
of the Magi'i of the school, then through a gleaming cupridium door,
and along a narrower corridor which ends in another cupridium door that
has neither latches nor handles nor knobs.

Knowing what must come next, Lorn watches the Lector with his senses as
the man lifts his hand.  The flash of golden energy follows, and Lorn
withholds a nod of understanding as Abram'elth eases the heavy door
into its recess.  The three enter the second corridor where the floors,
walls, and ceiling are all of white granite Lorn remembers.

Abram'elth stops and turns to the two students.  "Up ahead you see the
black shield.  When you look through the black shield, you will see the
Magi'i tower-the one that powers chaos cells used in the school and in
the Palace of Eternal Light."  The Lector pauses, then adds.  "Study
the tower, not only with your eyes, but with your senses, and see the
variants of chaos that exist.  Do not even think about transferring
chaos.  If you do, both the tower and I will consume you with unfocused
chaos."

"Yes, scr."  Lorn's and Tyrsal's responses are nearly simultaneous.
"Tyrsal'elth, you may go first."

"Yes, scr."  The redhead takes his place before the darkened square
that is neither glass nor metal nor any substance yet made in centuries
within Cyador, a single pane so dark it appears black.  He stands there
for a very long time before he steps away.

Abram'elth's eyes and senses shift from Tyrsal to Lorn.  "Lorn'elth."
The Lector's voice rumbles in the granite-walled corridor.

Lorn walks to the window shield, where, through the dark aperture, he
studies the shimmering tower enclosed within the insulated granite
walls of the chaos-power station.  He recalls a similar such vision,
clearly unauthorized, from many years before, long before he had first
seen a tower as a student magus.

Knowing that, he concentrates, but his eyes reveal to him little beyond
the glaring silhouette of the tower.  His chaos senses focus on the
reddish-white chaos surrounding the bluish-white barrier that blocks
the core from touching even the air that surrounds it.  He feels,
though he could not explain why, that the tower, this particular one,
teeters on the edge of... nothingness... as if poised to fall into the
world, or out of it.  Yet the reddish chaos and the bluish chaos do not
touch, although each pulses in response to the other.

After a time, Lorn steps away, his face expressionless.  After he does,
the Lector studies Lorn, then Tyrsal, before he speaks.  "What did you
sense?"

"The pulse of chaos," Lorn says mildly.  "It is constant, yet
ever-changing."

"It is constant within chaotic bounds," the Lector affirms.  "It
produces the same amount of chaos energy at all times."  He turns to
Tyrsal.  "The chaos that surrounds the core," offers Tyrsal.  "There is
a barrier there," confirms Lorn.

Abram'elth nods slowly.  "Precisely, and that barrier must remain for
the tower to continue operating."

"What happens if it doesn't, scr?"  inquires Tyrsal.  "Then the tower
will cease to be."  The Lector frowns.  "Your lessons should have
taught you that."

"Yes, scr."  Tyrsal looks down.

Lorn realizes he must speak or forfeit the opportunity.  Offering a
guileless smile, he says slowly, "But there is chaos-or something like
it-on the other side of the barrier.  Wouldn't that escape or
something?"

The Lector's frown deepens as his eyes flick to the dark-haired student
magus.  "How do you know that?"

"You told us that there were several kinds of chaos, and asked us to
try to use our chaos senses to determine them," Lorn replies easily.
"The chaos behind the barrier feels different, as you said it would."

"I did say that," muses the Lector, almost to himself, then he
straightens.  "No one knows for certain what will happen if the barrier
fails, and no tower has yet failed since the first years of the
founding of Cyad nearly two hundred years ago.  And one of the tasks of
the Magi'i, as you will discover, is to ensure that no tower does
fail."

Tyrsal and Lorn do not exchange glances, but they might well have, for
Lorn knows that the Lector misleads with his last statement-not exactly
a lie, but a statement verging on it, and Lorn knows Tyrsal understands
that as well.  Lorn also knows that Abram'elth does not know that Lorn
and Tyrsal can sense such, for most students cannot sense such shading
of the truth.

"Remember, the towers are the heart of Cyad and Cyador."

"Yes, scr."

The Lector believes his last statement, and that belief troubles Lorn
more than the statement that had preceded it.

The two follow the Lector back along the corridor to the door where,
again, Abram'elth raises his hand and focuses chaos before sliding the
door open.

Once the three have traveled the white granite corridors and are back
in the discussion room, where Ciesrt and Rustyl are waiting, the Lector
surveys the four students.

"Tomorrow, you will begin your advanced chaos-transfer training in the
fire wagon hall.  Consider what you have seen.  You may speak of it
only to other Magi'i or to students as advanced as you, and to no
others. We will know if you speak otherwise.  You may depart for the
day."

VI

The Emperor Toziel'elth'alt'mer looks through the tinted glass windows
of the Palace.  His eyes focus on the harbor of Cyad, and the piers
that house the White Fleet-although there are but two of the
white-hulled fireships tied there presently.  To the east of the
fireships are tied a handful of coasting schooners, a brig that flies
the jack of Brysta, and two other deep-sea vessels without jacks or
ensigns flying.

North of the piers and closer to the Palace, the sunstone-paved streets
glisten.  The shops to the west sport green and white awnings, and
under those immaculate canvases are the cafes and bakeries for which
Cyad is known.  Those who walk the streets are well-clad, whether in
the shimmer cloth affected by the Magi'i, the higher mer chanters or
lancer officers-and their households-or in the hard-combed and
tightly-woven cotton of the common people.

"Yet the least of the common folk is clad like a noble among the
barbarians, and lives in greater comfort and cleanliness," murmurs the
Emperor.  "And that is as it should be."  He turns and walks past the
Great Hall, past the three-story-high gilded doors that can open so
silently and swiftly that an observer who blinked might well miss their
operation.  Behind him follow two figures uniformed in silver-trimmed
green, each with hand fire lances-used but by the Palace Guard and
those Mirror Lancers who guard the outside of the Palace of Light.

The Emperor Toziel-for he thinks of himself without the multiple
identifiers attached to his name-steps through a silently-opening and
cupridium-clad door that brings him to his own entrance to the small
receiving hall.  After a moment, composing himself, he steps through
the archway and seats himself on the sculpted malachite and silver
chair on the dais.  He looks out over a marble-floored room merely
large enough for two or three of the Cyadoran fire wagons that speed
endlessly along the Great North Highway.

Those waiting cross the shimmering and spotless white tiles, bow below
the dais, and offer their felicitations.

"Your Mightiness..."

"Mightiness..."

Toziel gestures toward his Majer-Commander of Lancers, standing on the
left of those who await his scrutiny.  "If you would, Rynst'alt..."

"There were nearly ten score barbarians in the raid on Pemedra, and
nearly that many in the raid on Inividra.  We have not seen such raids,
not on the base outposts, in many years.  The Mirror Lancers killed
about half those in the first raid, perhaps a third of those in the
second.  The barbarians vanished, as expected, into the Grass Hills.
They appear as endless as the blades of grass in those hills."  The
gray-haired officer in cream and green bows slightly as he finishes
speaking, as if apologizing.  "We have sent additional charged fire
lances to the north, and replacement lancers as well."

"Thank you, Rynst'alt."  The tired-faced and silver-robed figure shifts
his weight in the sculpted malachite and silver chair and turns his
head toward the golden-eyed magus with the crossed cupridium lightning
bolts on the breast of his tunic.

"The replenishment tower continues to provide chaos flow for the lances
and the fire wagons sire.  We were required to charge nearly double the
number of wagons this fall as compared to the numbers in any recent
year in the past generation."

Toziel nods.  "High Lector Chyenfel'elth, can we move any of the towers
that prison the Accursed Forest?"

"No, sire."  Chyenfel'elth bows.  "Attempting to move them would be far
too great a risk."

"What about replenishing chaos for the lances from those towers?  They
could be moved down to Fyrad on the Great Canal."

"That we can do for now.  For how many years we do not know.  You
should be aware, sire, that two of the ward towers have already failed.
It will take all the chaos of those remaining to build the permanent
barrier you have approved, sire."

"You do not know yet even if you can accomplish this," Toziel points
out.

"We must try, sire.  The towers will not remain forever."

"And, if I rescind my approval?"

"You do as you see fit, sire.  The Magi'i obey."

"How long will it take to build the barrier?"

"It is not precisely a barrier," Chyenfel says cautiously.

"It will bar the Accursed Forest, will it not?"

"Yes, sire.  We cannot say how long the process will take.  We estimate
a full two seasons, if aught goes well."

"And that will provide protection for the realm of chaos for
generations to come?  And keep the Forest from reclaiming Cyador?"

"As we discussed..."  Chyenfel says smoothly.

"On a lesser scale, I know."

"Yes, sire."

"I will consider this, and I will talk to the Hand."  Toziel turns to
the next figure, clad in shimmering blue.  "How stand the warehouses,
BluoyaI'mer?"

Bluoyal bows stiffly.  "All have been inspected and their contents
enumerated... this autumn season is a little different from any other
autumn season..."

"Have you been able to purchase the additional cuprite?"

"Yes, sire, although in the quantities required, the... acquisition
necessitated spending nearly a thousand golds beyond what we had
estimated.  You may recall, sire, that we had discussed that
possibility."

"We had."  The tired eyes of the Emperor watch each of those who act as
though they serve him and Cyador.

VII

A cool mist shrouds Cyad, a mist that holds the tang of salt air, the
fragrance of the late-blooming aram yds and the faintest odor of the
bitterness that reminds Lorn of chaos, an acridness far stronger within
the Quarter of the Magi'i, but omnipresent throughout the great white
city.  Occasional drops of rain slither through the silvery mist, and
the white stones of the buildings and roads of Cyad are gray with
moisture.

Lorn slips along the covered portico on the upper level of the dwelling
and then down the outside steps to the garden, staying close to the
inside wall.  In his left hand is a loosely rolled bundle that appears
to be a towel.  Once in the garden, he takes the path by the wall
toward the postern gate, for that is directly under his mother's
window, and unless she leans out the window, she could not see him pass
below.

There is a bench outside the rear gate, where Elthya and the other
servants often gather to talk, but no one will be there while dinner is
being prepared.  After he eases the gate closed, in the afternoon
dimness, he quickly pulls off his green-trimmed student whites and dons
the shimmering blue mer chanter tunic and trousers, then switches his
white boots for the dark blue boots, before adding a blue belt.  He
rerolls his own clothes and places them and his boots into the
pitch-coated basket that he had left earlier and replaces the basket
back under the feathered conifer beyond the gate.

He walks swiftly down the alley and across the Road of Perpetual Light,
still taking the alley downhill past two other roads until he turns
westward on the Road of Benevolent Commerce.  The heavy heels of the
mer chanter boots barely whisper on the stone pavement.  His stride is
that of the other junior mer chanters who scurry to the beckoning of
others.

As he passes the Empty Quarter-a coffee house, almost a cafe, that
caters to the most junior of mer chanter apprentices-and outland
sea-traders-he nods to the two apprentices sitting in the near-vacant
establishment, giving them a perfunctory smile of acknowledgement.

"Who's that... ?"

"Some junior enumerator... friend of Alyet's and Ryalth's... saved
Alyet from Halthor one night when he guzzled too much...."  "can't
figure Halthor drowning..."  "anyone'll drown... drinks and walks the
piers..."  "looks young for an enumerator..."  "...Ryalth says he's
good..."  "at what?"

Lorn represses a grin as he hurries westward along the Way of
Benevolent Commerce until it intersects with the First Harbor Way.  The
corner is identified by the green-lettered placards inscribed in the
angular Anglorian script on the walls of the warehouse that stands on
the southwest corner.  Only in the trading district of Cyad do such
placards exist.  Elsewhere, one must know where he goes.

On the northwest corner, a woman in shimmering blue waits for Lorn
under the awning by the Honest Stone-the unofficial mer chanter coffee
house for the warehouse district of Cyad.

Lorn waves and smiles as he nears.

"I was afraid you weren't coming."  Ryalth snorts angrily.  "After all
you said."

"I'm sorry."  Lorn offers an easy and fully apologetic smile.  "I got
here as quickly as I could."

"We'd better go.  Aljak said at the eighth bell."  Ryalth heads toward
the harbor, walking on the right side of the white-paved First Harbor
Way, as much by custom as to avoid the near-silent cart on the left
drawn up the gentle incline by a white pony.

Lorn inclines his head to the bearded carter who walks beside the pony,
leading him, then says quietly, "We have some time."

Ryalth glances behind them, as though she fears they are being
followed.

"Don't worry," Lorn assures her.  "All we're doing is buying cotton."

"With our own coins-not clan coins-and there's no one to back us if
it's not good."

"That's why I'm here, remember?"  Lorn says.

"You can slip back into that mighty house if this doesn't work."

"It's worked before.  Why would today be any different?"

"Because it's Hamorian cotton.  Or that's what Aljak has let it be
known.  You can't trust him, not even so much as Jiulko."

"He was the one who had the oils-Jiulko?"  Lorn touches Ryalth's arm,
gently, offering reassurance.

"I don't know why you talked me into this," Ryalth murmurs.

"So that you can start your own mer chanter house.  Merchanter women
can refuse to consort, or consort by choice if they have a business
worth more than five hundred golds.  Remember?"

"Don't remind me."

"My sisters would like that kind of choice," Lorn says softly.

"Why would they need it?  They're protected women."

Lorn smiles faintly, deciding against arguing.  "If we take this
Aljak's cotton... If we take it, did you arrange for a cart?"

"Sormet has the next warehouse... he'll let us use his hand cart and
charge me a silver for storage until I can sell it, if it's less than a
season."  Ryalth grins.  "The oils... he got a silver for an eight day
So he'll be happy."

"If the cotton's good."

"Some of it will be good," predicts Ryalth.

The two swing to the left and around a two-horse wagon that lumbers
uphill.  The wagon bed is covered, as required in Cyad, but the
covering does not totally block the acrid odor of dyes carried in the
small demi casks

"Green dye," Lorn murmurs.

"You'd think you'd been born a mer chanter sometimes, and then... other
times."  Ryalth shakes her head.

"That's why we work together."

Ryalth laughs.  "No... we work together because you want to sleep with
me, and it's the only way you think I'll keep seeing you."

Lorn smiles, slightly more than faintly.  "Well... you're still seeing
me, and you have a lot more golds."

"Alyet says you'll leave me once you become a full Magus."

"More likely that you'll leave me," he counters, laughing again.  "I'm
too young for you.  You've told me that more than once."

Ryalth turns again, this time along the Road of the Second Quay, which
is the second street back from the stone piers where the trading
vessels tie up.

Although the road is spotless, for it could not be otherwise in Cyad,
an air of disuse permeates the road that appears narrower than it is,
running as it does between the high and largely windowless warehouses
of gray stone.  The acrid scent of ancient, chaos-carved stone drifts
up and around Lorn, a scent that he has discovered few others
discern.

"His place is on the next corner, away from the harbor."

"Are any of these used any more?"  Lorn gestures to the warehouse to
his right.

"Most of them are empty.  Aljak probably doesn't pay a gold an
eight-day to rent the space.  It belongs to the Jekseng clan, but they
only have two ocean traders and a coaster left."  She adds wryly, "I
wish I had just two ocean traders and a coaster left."

"Is that it?"  Lorn nods toward the half-opened timbered door framed by
weathered granite that had faded into a whitened and dingy gray shade
more attractive from the hillside above than from where he viewed it.

"Yes."  Ryalth squares her shoulders, her hand brushing her belt wallet
as she steps toward the open door.

Lorn follows Ryalth through the opening created by a heavy wooden
sliding door being rolled back perhaps five cubits.  He enters the
warehouse a step behind her, his posture conveying that he is indeed
her lackey-or hired enumerator.  His chaos senses flick across the
racked items, stopping for a moment on the barrels of seed oil stacked
in a cube to the left of the doorway.  He does not nod, but his eyes
sparkle, as he takes in the other items-a pallet of dark timbers; five
tall amphorae, one slightly cracked, with darkness seeping from the
crack; a stack of what appear to be bales of wool; another set of nine
curved canisters, half again as large as the amphorae.... "Ah... the
lady mer chanter from the House of the Lesser Traders."  Aljak steps
out of the gloom at the rear of the cavernous structure toward the
comparatively small groupings of goods just beyond the open warehouse
door.

Lorn focuses on the heavy-set but massively broad trader with the oiled
curly black hair and the bush-like beard.  Heavy bronze bands girdle
overlarge wrists.

"Trader Aljak."  Ryalth inclines her head.  "Sormet said you might have
some cotton... some good Hamorian cotton."

"That I do.  That I do, lady mer chanter  Aljak has what others lack."
The big trader offers a rolling belly laugh that echoes falsely through
the big warehouse, then turns and walks a good fifteen cubits before
pointing at five bolts of off-white cloth, each hung on a rack above
the stone floor of the warehouse.  "Here ye be.  Five full-length bolts
of Hamorian first rate cotton, thread count guaranteed tighter than six
score to the span, ready to bleach and dye.  Twenty-five for the lot or
seven and a half for each bolt, and I pick the bolts."

Ryalth nods, then moves forward.

Aljak steps back, his eyes flickering toward the darker section of the
warehouse to the east.

Lorn sees the other two men, nearly as big as the trader, with blades,
iron blades, in the scabbards at their belts.  His eyes flick back to
the barrels of seed oil, then to Ryalth.  As Ryalth examines each bolt
of cotton, Lorn studies each with his chaos senses.

After looking at the last bolt, Ryalth straightens and steps toward
Lorn.

He steps forward and murmurs, "The first two, the ones closest to the
door, are garment class cotton, close to it.  The other three are
leavings or burlap or something wrapped in the good cotton."

"He's asking five golds a bolt, if we take all of them."

"What's a bale of garment class run?"

"Bales are for raw cotton.  Bolts are finished.  I could sell it at ten
a bolt to Guvell."  She frowns.  "Maybe fifteen if it's really good."

The two burly men, each topping Lorn by a head, appear just behind the
trader.

"What say you, mer chanter

"Offer him eight for the first two bolts," Lorn suggests, noting the
short timber leaning against an empty rack.  He does not let his eyes
even register its presence as he bends toward Ryalth.  "Tell him we'd
love to buy his cotton, but that it's far more than we need."

"We'll take the first two bolts for eight golds total," Ryalth offers
firmly.

"Eight golds for that which will bring twenty, or perchance thirty.
Ah... my friends... Well... perhaps you don't wish to buy my cotton
after all.  Sooner or later, you will.  You mer chanters won't have the
golds to keep buying shimmer cloth from the Hamorians, not with the
barbarians pushing at your borders."  Aljak and the two guards ease
forward.  Each guard bears a heavy club, besides the blades in the
scabbards.  Aljak has a coil of velvet rope in his left hand, and the
teeth that his smile reveals are crooked and yellow.

Lorn hides a frown, his attention on Ryalth-and the two thugs.

"And lady mer chanter perhaps you would like to spend some time with a
real man, not a girlish enumerator."  Aljak laughs harshly.  "To seal a
bargain, shall we say."

"When I tell you, dash toward the oil barrels... all right?"  Lorn
murmurs to Ryalth.

"You won't pay me twenty-five?  How about twenty-five just to leave
here?"  Aljak laughs again, and the two guards step away from him, as
if to flank Lorn and Ryalth.

"Now!"  Lorn says.

As Ryalth bolts for the oil barrels, the student magus concentrates-
hoping he can pull chaos from enough places-then flings the fire bolt
into Aljak.

Hsssttt!

"Aeeeeiiii Dung-devil..."  Aljak's words are cut off.

The two guards freeze as they see the pillar of fire.  Lorn uses the
interval to cast two more fire bolts  Hssst."  Hssst!

The other two figures writhe, screaming, momentarily, before they
topple into charred heaps.

Lorn scans the rest of the warehouse, but the space is empty, as he
expected.  Aljak had not wanted witnesses.  So far the student magus
cannot sense the unseen presence of someone scanning the warehouse with
a chaos glass.  That is good, since he has used chaos in ways reserved
but to upper-level mages.  He wipes his damp forehead, ignoring the
sudden headache.  "Ryalth, I need some help."

Ryalth's eyes are wide as she steps away from the oil barrels. "What...
what... did you do?"

"A small fire lance like the emperor's guards have," Lorn lies.  "I'm
not supposed to have one, and it would be best if you didn't mention
it."  He steps toward the small table behind the last stack of goods,
nodding as he sees the small chest on the table.  His fingers and his
chaos senses deftly work a thin stick, and the lock clicks.  He opens
the chest and nods.

"Who... who would I tell?"  asks Ryalth, looking over her shoulder
toward the door as she hurries toward the young magus.

Lorn picks up a two-cubit length of greenish cloth from the samples on
the table.  Then, after pocketing perhaps fifty golds, he wraps the
small strongbox in the cloth and hands it to Ryalth.  "Here.  It's
yours."

"What?"  Ryalth steps away, not taking the wrapped chest.  "Aljak's
family will be looking for anyone with more golds... they'll know it's
stolen."

"Maybe not."  He glances at the three charred figures.  "Take it,
please."

"What?"  She reluctantly accepts the cloth-wrapped and heavy oblong.

"Come on."  He tugs her toward the warehouse door, then gestures.
"Stand right inside the door.  Be ready to run.  Tell me if anyone's
watching."

Ryalth raises her fine reddish eyebrows.

"Please."  Lorn follows her, but halts a dozen paces beyond the rack
oil barrels, his eyes on the redhead in blue.

When she reaches the timbered door, she glances out, and then back at
Lorn.  "There's no one near.  Some people at the cross-street up the
way, though.  They're coming this way."

"They're not near now?"

"No."

Backing toward the door where Ryalth waits, Lorn concentrates on
summoning chaos right into the middle of one of the center barrels of
oil, ignoring the headache that builds even more.

Whhhooossshhh!  The wall of flame is so sudden and massive that he
stumbles out the door, dragging Ryalth with him.

Turning toward the figures less than a hundred cubits north, who have
already turned toward the warehouse, and gesturing toward the blaze,
Lorn yells.  "Fire!  Fire in the warehouse!"

"Fire!  Fire!"  Ryalth's voice adds to the clamor.

The heads of three others at the corner turn.

From a narrow doorway across the road, a tall man runs toward them.
"It's the clan warehouse!  You!  What caused it?"

"Oils, I think.  We were talking about cotton, and all of a sudden
there were flames everywhere."  Lorn glances at Ryalth.  "Excuse me,
scr.  I think she's a bit faint."

"Who are you?"  demands the trader, studying the two young people in
blue.  "What clan?"

"I'm an enumerator."  Another whoosh of flame flares from the
warehouse, and the mer chanter looks at the flames, then back at the
two.  Ryalth leans, almost dramatically, on Lorn's shoulder.  The
trader dashes past them toward the flaming section of the warehouse,
gesturing toward the three men who have piled out the opposing
warehouse as well.  "We've got to get the water on the next building.
Don't let another one go."

Lorn takes Ryalth's arm.  "Let's get out of here.  Don't drop that."

They hurry back along the road until they reach the Second Harbor Way
and turn uphill.

Ryalth glances back toward the increasing pillar of smoke.  "Did you
have to do that?  That could burn a whole block."

"It won't.  The roof's slate, and there's nothing to burn but the oils.
Maybe whatever was in the amphorae."  Lorn pulls Ryalth to the side of
the Way as a the fire brigade wagon careens past.  "Aljak was ready to
kill both of us.  That's why no one else was there-except he would have
spent longer with you."  He offers a crooked smile as they walk swiftly
uphill and then eastward along the Lower Hill Road away from the
warehouses.  "Not that I fault his taste."

"You're frightening sometimes, Lorn."

"Me?  I'm just a student."  He grins disarmingly.

"That's hard to believe at times."  Without stopping, Ryalth looks down
at the wrapped cloth.  "This is heavy."

"You've got your five hundred golds, more or less."

"I can't take all that."

"You have to.  I took what I dared.  If I had more, my family would
find out in days, if not sooner."

At the corner of the Second Harbor Way and the Road of Benevolent
Commerce, the unofficial border to the mer chanter quarter, they stop
under a tall feathering conifer, shielded from above by the spreading
dark green branches and by the afternoon mist.  Lorn is breathing
heavily, but the worst of his headache has faded.  He stands there
silently for a moment, thinking.  Abruptly, he turns to Ryalth.  "Do
you have any scent?  A vial of what you use?"

The redhead frowns.  "Why?"

"Just dab some on me."

She fumbles in her belt wallet, her arm still around the cloth-covered
strongbox.  "You know that the City Watch wouldn't be pleased with
this."

"They don't care about scent," Lorn jokes.

"They care about people setting fires," she whispers as she dabs some
of the scent oil on his wrist.

"Better fires than outland traders assaulting Cyadoran mer chanters he
counters, adding, "More of the scent."

"More?  What's on you will cover any scent of smoke."  Her eyebrows
lift.  "You want your family to know you've been with someone?"

"It's better than having them ask what I've really been doing," he
points out.  "Remember, when you live in a Magi'i family, questions are
dangerous."

"People say that... is it true?"

"Only a handful of Magi'i can truth read but the Lectors can, and my
father is a Lector."  Lorn gestures.  "Dab more on my skin, my neck,"
he suggests, "as much as you can spare."

"You already reek."  She wrinkles her nose.

"Fine.  Then, they'll all be ready to condemn me."

"And me," Ryalth points out.

"They don't know you, and they'd have to know your name to ask a decent
question."

She shakes her head, then glances along the road.  "I think I'm glad
I'm not from the Magi'i."

Lorn straightens the blue tunic.  "You said I could always retreat to
my mighty house."

"It sounds as bad as an inbred clan house."

"It's not that bad.  My sisters are nice.  So are my parents."

"I'm sure they are."  Ryalth pauses, then adds, "I'll save your share
of the coins."

He shakes his head.  "They're yours.  I took some, but you took most of
the risks," he exaggerates.

She frowns, but says nothing.

"I'll need some favors before everything's done.  Call the coins
advance payment."  He smiles broadly.

"I can't afford favors that expensive."

"I won't ask for anything that big."  He leans forward and touches the
line of her cheek.  "Use them to get yourself free."  Then he squeezes
her hand and steps from under the conifer, hurrying uphill.

After a moment, Ryalth swallows and begins to walk eastward.

There is no one near the postern gate as Lorn quickly changes into his
student whites, leaving the blues and the blue boots in the basket
tucked behind the small tree.  He readjusts the square of cloth in his
belt wallet to ensure the coins are muffled, and then walks briskly
through the garden and up the steps.

"You're late, Lorn."  His father stands at the top of the steps.  "Your
mother is worried.  It would be kinder if you let us know when you're
going out."

"Yes, scr.  I'm sorry.  I know.  I lost track of time.  I didn't expect
to be so late."  Lorn's statements are all true, and he makes sure he
doesn't look anywhere close to the billowing smoke that rises to the
southwest of them.

His father's nose wrinkles, and he shakes his head.  "That's a mer
chanter scent, isn't it?"

Lorn tries to look bewildered.

"Don't dignify it with a falsehood, Lorn."

"Yes, scr.  I mean it is.  A mer chanter fragrance."

"Do you know what you're doing?  What if... ?"  His father doesn't
finish the question.

"I've been careful about that.  There won't be any child," Lorn says
absolutely truthfully.

"Lorn..."  His father shakes his head again.  "I trust you have not
attempted a chaos compulsion with the girl."

"Noser  I wouldn't do such with her."

"Chaos compulsions are odious, and over time, they weaken those who use
them, and make them susceptible to the compulsions of others."  Kien's
voice is stern.

"I have not with her, and I will keep your advice, scr."

"Good.  Would that you will be so amenable to showing greater interest
in your studies.  If not, perhaps a time in the lancers will settle you
down... though this is not the best time."

Lorn knows he cannot manifest any greater interest in his studies,
although he has come to enjoy learning for its own sake, feeling the
sense and the power involved in transferring chaos from the tower
outlets to the fire lances and in seeing just how much chaos he can
press into each weapon.  He also is less than enthused about the
thought that he could be posted to the frontiers and use a lance or
blade in earnest, even if his skills with the blade are among the best
among the students, including those like Dettaur who had been born with
a blade in his hand.  Using a blade in earnest would definitely
increase the odds of an earlier demise than Lorn would wish.

"Vernt was right, then... about the barbarians?"  he asks his father.

"There have been more attacks than in any time in memory-or in the
records," his father admits.  "And they have even used archers in the
far northwest."  A faint smile appears on Kien'elth's thin lips.  "All
the attacks have been repulsed, and most of the barbarians killed."

"But they keep attacking?"

"Yes... Enough... we can talk about it at dinner.  After you wash off
some of that scent.  I'll tell your mother that you're here."

"Yes, scr."  As he hurries toward the wash chamber, Lorn can sense his
father's unease, as though there is far more left unsaid.  Yet, Lorn
does not wish to push, not when he has apparently misdirected
Kien'elth's inquiries about his actions of the afternoon.

VIII

The core of a fully functioning tower maintains an
isochronic/isotemporal barrier of approximately nine hundred
nanoseconds.  This temporal "dislocation" effectively provides the
points of energy polarity which generate the raw power fed to the
converter system... The dislocation also provides a barrier against the
operating impingement of the physical energy transfer generation laws
of the spatiotemporal coordinates of the systems hereafter described...
This impingement effect is illustrated by more than ten local years of
observation.  No tower in which the isochronic/isotemporal barrier has
failed [failure being defined as a barrier separation of less than 150
nanoseconds, with an error margin of three percent] has ever functioned
again in the spatiotemporal coordinates in which this world is
currently situated.... Tower cores have been run continuously without
shutdown for the operating life of a Mirror Ship.  The longest known
continuous operation documented prior to the space-time shift trans
locating the colonizing/planoforming expedition... was eighty-seven
elapsed standard Anglo-Rationalist years.

Given that a standard storage cell [model CD-3A] discharges power at
the same amplitude as before the trans-spatiotemporal shift, but for
more than quadruple the previous duration, and that power amplitude
requirements/discharges from various powered end-use equipment [i.e."
electro cell carriers, motor dynamos laselectroburst rifles,
antipersonnel electrolasers] varies by user, locale, and even
spatiotemporal planetary locales, accurate determination of tower core
life is unlikely.

Consequently, despite considerable depletion of technical personnel and
transport equipment, in the interests of pragmatism and maintaining a
viable colonial structure with the infrastructure necessary to adapt to
the local parameters and paradigms, as described in Section IV, the
remaining tower cores have been located in physical circumstances that
would appear as most conducive to their continued and uninterrupted
operation... Maintenance can be accomplished on the secondary systems
[see Section V], as well as the energy transfer and conversion systems,
since these are located outside the core, and the power transfers are
accomplished by field manipulations and impingements.  Such maintenance
should be held to an absolute minimum, however, since macular cellular
degeneration has already been observed among personnel with high
exposure within the operating confines of the basic system, in
contravention of previously established principles and tolerances...
Overview

Maintenance Manual [Revised]

IX

Lorn grins as he peers into Myryan's chambers.  "How's the studious
healer?"

His younger sister looks up from the old and cushioned maroon armchair
she had claimed years earlier from the second-floor sitting room when
their parents had considered sending it down to the first-floor
servants' quarters.  She has a black leather bound book in her lap, and
her green-trousered legs are slung over one arm of the chair.  She
pushes a shock of black and wavy curls back off her high forehead.
"Lorn..."  She grins back.  "You're full of horse dung.  Jerial's the
studious healer, and we all know it."

"You're the natural one, though."  He slips through the door and closes
it gently behind him, dropping easily into the straight-backed chair
that has been turned out from the writing desk.  He ignores the
half-written note on the leather desk pad.

"What were you doing yesterday?"

Lorn shrugs, half-embarrassedly.  "Everyone knows.  I was with a
girl."

"She wears a nice scent, even if it is a mer chanter fragrance.  Who is
she?"  Myryan offers a knowing smile.

"A mer chanter he responds.

"She's more than that," Myryan says.  "Are you-"

"Don't ask... please?"  Lorn offers a truly embarrassed smile, hoping
his expression displays enough chagrin.

"I won't... since you asked."  Her amber eyes smile with her mouth.
"But only since you asked.  Jerial would have asked anyway.  Is that
why you're here?"

Lorn ignores the question and asks Myryan, "You're worried about
Ciesrt, aren't you?  That father will consort you two?"

"How observant."  She shakes her head.  "I'm not mad at you, Lorn.
Father doesn't see it, and consorting is one thing where what mother
thinks doesn't matter."

"Consorting is political."  Lorn shrugs again.  "We know that.  It
doesn't matter whether you like someone."

"It's unfair."  Myryan almost pouts, but reins in the expression.  "You
can have a mer chanter girl, and all anyone cares about is to make sure
there's no child, and you're back in time for dinner, and there are a
few laughs about wearing too much scent.  Can you imagine what would
happen if I arranged a tryst with a handsome mer chanter-or an outland
trader?"

"You wouldn't like the outland traders.  They do smell, most of
them."

"Is that why... ?"  Myryan arches her eyebrows.

Lorn laughs, easily and openly.  "I don't think so."

"You saved her from a fate worse than death?"

"Once or twice," Lorn admits.

"How can you say that and be telling the truth?"  Myryan shakes her
head, trying not to laugh.  "You're impossible."

"What about Ciesrt?"  Lorn asks again.

"He's dull as a pillar, and he's not even sweet.  People think he's
nice because he's quiet.  He's quiet because he's only half alive.  He
only talks about being a magus."

Lorn nods.

"Father doesn't want to see."  She shakes her head and looks down.

"I won't promise... but maybe I can do something.  Talk to father, or
Vernt."

"They won't listen.  Ciesrt's going to be a full magus, and no one
could be a more wonderful consort than that."  Her voice, normally full
and warm, carries a bitter edge that Lorn hears seldom and likes not at
all.

"Talk to me about healing," Lorn suggests.

"Jerial knows more."

"I'm not interested in knowing.  I'm interested in seeing and feeling,"
Lorn replies.  "Scroll or book learning aren't enough."  His mouth
quirks into a self-depreciating smile.

"It'll be hard for you," Myryan says.

"If you say so."

"I mean it.  You've been handling chaos."

Lorn raises his eyebrows.

"Don't look at me like I'm daft.  There's a white shimmer around you.
Father practically glows all the time.  So does Vernt.  You're not so
bad."

Lorn nodded.  "And there's a blackish haze around you and Jerial, but
it's stronger around you."

"You can see it?"

"More like feel it," he admits.

"Good.  Vernt can't, you know.  He thinks healing is all imaginary
because he's order-blind.  Father can't sense it, either, but he knows
it works."

"Father is a pragmatist."  After a pause, Lorn adds, "About most
things, anyway."

"And there are two kinds of chaos," Myryan continues, "the deep
white-gold kind-like surrounds the Quarter of the Magi'i-and the ugly
reddish white kind, and that's what you feel when a wound goes bad or
someone looks like they're going to die.  Healing's not what people
think it is," Myryan states flatly.  "A good healer can combine
order-that's the black-with wound chaos, so that someone can heal, and
we can bind things together for a time-"

"But their bodies have to heal by themselves," Lorn finishes.  Myryan
waits.

"How do you bind or wrap the order to someone?"  he finally inquires.
Myryan laughs.  "I asked Kyrysmal the same thing.  People have chaos
and order within them.  You have to work with that."

"Show me."

"Are you sure?  They say that the Magi'i shouldn't work with both."
Myryan looks intently at her older brother.

"I'm not going to be a magus," Lorn replies.  "Before year-end, I'll be
a lancer, and healing will help."

"You're going to give up on magery?"  Myryan's eyes flick toward the
closed door, as if to make sure that Lorn's words do not leave the
room.  "What will father say?"

"He already knows, but he's hoping that it won't come to that."

"But why?  Father says you do well at your studies and that no one
learns things better than you do."

"I don't like being confined between walls of granite.  That much
chaos... presses in on me."  Lorn shrugs helplessly.  "I can't hide
that.  Lector Hyrist would have thrown me out a long time ago if father
weren't a Lector and if my studies weren't so good.  The Magi'i want
people who eat, think, breathe, and sleep chaos transfers and
manipulation.  Like Vernt... or father."

"All right."  Myryan sighs as she swings her legs around and stands.
"Give me your hand.  If you had a slash there that wasn't healing it
would be red and maybe puffy... really, you wouldn't need healing.  You
could-"

"Cut it open and drain it, and wash it with clear winter brandy or
something."  Lorn smiles.  "I know."  He stands and extends his hand.
As she steps closer, he can smell the clean scent of frysya.  "But if I
were going to lose it... ?"

"I'd reach out and gather free order... like this."

Lorn's senses follow hers as the unseen but still real darkness forms
above his left hand.  He tries to replicate her order-gathering.  After
a moment, a smaller, more diffuse, block of darkness appears beside
hers.

"Oh... you should have been a healer."

"Men aren't healers-not in Cyador," he points out.

"Like women aren't Magi'i," she replies.

Near-identical ironic smiles appear on each sibling's face.

"How do you bind it or move it?"

"You take the affinity within your body...."

Lorn's eyes and senses are fully intent, his amber eyes both searching
and hard as he concentrates on his sister's demonstration of order
healing.

Two figures stand on the westernmost balcony of the Palace of Light,
enjoying the comfortable breeze that heralds the beginning of the cool
but moderate winter in Cyad.  Below them, the green and white awnings
on the small plaza to the west and north of the harbor piers ripple
with a gust of wind coming off the Great Western Ocean, enough of a
gust that the rippling is visible nearly a kay away on the Palace
balcony.

"Someone used chaos to create the fire in the warehouse district,"
First Magus Chyenfel says to the Majer-Commander of Lancers.

"Was there any damage beyond the one warehouse?"  inquires Rynst.

"No.  The damage was confined to the western end.  It had been rented
to an outland trader by the Jekseng clan."

"Outsiders, again.  Everywhere, from the barbarians to the traders, we
have difficulties with outsiders."  After a pause, Rynst ventures
quietly, "Some had mentioned seed-oil burning."

"It was-but you cannot get that heavy oil to burn with a striker-or
even a fallen candle or lamp."  Chyenfel smiles ironically, his sun
gold eyes flashing.

"Cammabark?"

"There wasn't any sign of an explosion, and there were bodies and bones
there.  The dead men didn't try to run."

"The fire was to cover their murder, then.  Anyone important?"

The High Lector and First Magus shakes his head.  "No.  The bodies seem
to be those of the man renting the warehouse-a most unsavory Hamorian
thought to be a smuggler-and his two bodyguards."

"How unfortunate.  How very unfortunate."  Rynst lifts his eyebrows.
"Then we cannot suspect the Hand of the Emperor?"

"No... not in a dispute between traders, not unless it is far more than
it seems to be.  But then, you know that."  Chyenfel smiles lazily.
"You would like to know who the Hand is, would you not?"

"Many would."

"True," muses Chyenfel.  His face hardens.  "Perhaps, just perhaps, the
most unfortunate demise of this Aljak may put an end to a string of
recent disappearances among the mer chanters

"You do think it was retribution?"  Rynst turns so that the afternoon
sun falls full on his back, bright if cold in the green-blue sky, and
so that he can watch both the First Magus more closely and the
harbor.

"It probably was, but we don't know who killed Aljak."  Chyenfel offers
a theatrical shrug.  "Unhappily, the man comes from a prominent
Hamorian trading family.  They have threatened a ten percent increase
in the cost of Hamorian goods... or so Bluoyal tells me."

"They cannot make that stick, not when the Austrans will bring the same
goods for a five percent increase.  Then, the Hamorians, should they
Want the trade, would have to go back to the old prices."

"That is true, and even Bluoyal would agree.  Yet... there is one
thing."

"Oh?"  offers the Majer-Commander warily.

"There was a trace of chaos beneath all the charred goods and ashes."

"You have assured me that all your Magi'i would not do such."

Chyenfel nods.  "I have already spoken with every magus.  All are
innocent.  None are hiding anything."

"Does that mean a wild chaos wielder?  Or that one of your Magi'i can
evade the truth reading

"Even those few skilled at truth reading cannot evade another's
reading. Since no Magi'i are involved, it mean the chaos was directed
in another fashion.  There was no spray.  That I could tell even after
the fire, and wild types do not have that kind of control."

"So... a former Magi'i?"

"Those who have such talents are weeded out early-they are dead or in
the lancers on the frontier."  Chyenfel fingers his smooth chin.  "And
we follow those who hold chaos with the glasses until they can no
longer do so or until they die.  None have been detected in Cyad in
seasons, if not years."

"You have the impossible, then, and that is less than satisfactory,
especially in these times."

"It could have been a small fire lance-as your guards for the Emperor
carry," suggests Chyenfel almost idly.

"I would be most pleased to accompany you as you question each of
them."  Rynst smiles tightly.

"I thought you would be."  Chyenfel returns the smile.

XI

Two figures in blue sit on a carved wooden bench that overlooks the
harbor of Cyad.  Below the low hill, a half-dozen ships are tied at the
white piers.  Cargo carts roll along the granite wharves, carts filled
with the wool brought from Analeria, cotton from Hamor across the
Eastern Ocean, tin ingots from Austra, and other goods from wherever
the tall-masted ships sail.  A single white-hulled fire ship is moored
at the lancer pier.

The redheaded woman shivers in the cool breeze.  "Lorn?"  Ryalth
pauses.  "Aren't you cold?"

"Me?  No."

"I am."  She eases next to him, so that their sides touch.  "You're
warm, like a banked fire, or the sun."

"I'd rather not talk about fires."

"I have a gift for you."  Ryalth's voice is soft.

"You don't have to give me anything," Lorn insists, as he turns.  "The
coins and the strongbox are for you.  I told you that.  Don't spend
them on me."

"It's not that kind of gift.  It's something I've had for a long
time."

Lorn raises his eyebrows.  "You don't have to do anything like that for
me.  You know that."

"I know I don't have to.  This is because I want to."  Her smile is
warm, even as she shivers again.

Lorn grins, and puts an arm around her.  "You are cold."

"That helps.  You're warm."  She pauses, tilting her head and looking
at him directly.  "Do you ever wonder where the Firstborn came from?
What they were like?"

Lorn frowns and shrugs.  "They came and used the chaos-towers to create
Cyad and Cyador.  They imprisoned the Accursed Forest and opened the
lands of the east for us.  They built the fire wagons and-"

"That's history," Ryalth interrupts him gently.  "We know a lot about
what they did.  But all the books and scrolls talk about is that they
came from the Rational Stars and what they built once they came here.
Don't you wonder about them?  What kind of people were they?"

"They were people like us."  Lorn laughs gently, turns and touches her
cheek with his right hand, then bends forward and brushes her cheek
with his lips.

Ryalth gently disengages him.  "Were they?"  His brow wrinkles.  "First
you talk about a gift, and now..."

"It's all the same thing."  She extends a shimmering oblong.  "It's
here."

"What is it?"

"It's an old, old book.  My mother's mother had it.  No one knew she
did.  Father said no one could make anything like that then, or, I
suppose, today.  He told me to keep it.  Never to sell it, no matter
what I was offered."

Lorn looks into her deep blue eyes.  "Don't give it to me, then.  It's
yours."

"Then you'll have to keep it for me," she says.

"I couldn't do anything like that..."

"Open it to where the leather marker is.  I want you to read me the
words there."  Ryalth forces the thin volume into his hands.

Lorn takes the book, its cover as unmarked and as smooth as if it had
been created in his fingers at that very moment.  He turns it sideways,
seeing the light flare across the silvered green binding fabric as the
winter sun's rays strike it.

"Open it," Ryalth insists.

He slides open the book, his fingers almost slipping on the pages that
are more like shimmer cloth than paper or parchment, a surface so
smooth it makes shimmer cloth rough by comparison.  The letters are
clear, but somehow slightly more tilted and angular than Lorn is used
to reading.

"That one."  The redhead points.

Lorn's eyes go to the title.  He reads it... and continues.

SHOULD I RECALL THE RATIONAL STARS

There I had a tower for the skies, where the rooms were clear, and the
music filled the walls.

The light clothed the halls, and the days were long.

The nights were song.

Should I recall the Rational Stars?

Or hold my ruin on this hill where new-raised walls are still,

Perfect granite set jagged on the dawn, with striped awnings spread
across the lawn.

Then, gold was known as gold, and long slow stories could be told.

White flowers filled the darkest room, flowers that never lost their
bloom.

Should I recall the Rational Stars?

And should I raise anew old chaos-towers in the darkest wood, leaving
nothing where the forest stood, turning the dark of day to sunlit
pride, to see frail windows throw the rainbow wide, with passages and
courts in bloom and white flowers in the darkest room?

Should I recall the Rational Stars?

I had a tower once, across heavens from here, with alabaster edges and
silver domes.

Raised above the fields and homes, it flagged my fires, flew my fear.

Oh... take these new lake isles and green green seas; take these sylvan
ponds and soaring trees; take these desert dunes and sun swept sands,
and pour them through your empty hands.

Lorn swallows, despite his resolve not to show any expression.

"It's sad, isn't it?"

He shakes his head.  "I don't know."

"You do know," she insists.

"Why... why did you bring this?"

"Because it's yours now.  Because I want you to keep it and read every
poem in it."

"It's yours," he insists once more.

"You have to keep it and read from it.  At least every few days.
Promise me."

"I promise."  Lorn nods slowly.  "You don't sound like a mer chanter
lady now."

"Do you think that we're all just one thing?  That I can only be a hard
trader lady?  That you can only be a logical magus?"

"You have to concentrate to be good."

"You... we... have some time for other things."  She grins.  "Other
things besides making love, too."

He looks down at the book, mock-mournfully.  "Are you making me
choose?"

"Silly man!  We have time for both."

Lorn looks at the green-silvered cover, so fresh, and so spotless, and
so ancient, and he wonders.

XII

Wearing the mer chanter shimmer cloth blues and blue boots, Lorn walks
hurriedly along the Road of Benevolent Commerce.  His destination is
the building that serves the Clanless Traders, the structure in which
Ryalth has opened a very small office, mainly, he suspects, to
legitimize her status as a woman free trader.  He hurries because he
has seen his father walking up the steps to Lector Chyenfel's study in
the Quarter of the Magi'i.  That had happened in midafternoon, as Lorn
had passed along the lower Tower corridor-and Lorn had known at that
moment that he was now headed for lancer training.

There might have been another reason for Chyenfel to summon Lorn's
father, but Lorn strongly doubts it, and that means he has little
enough time before he is sent off for lancer training.  Far too little
time for what needs to be done, because he has no doubts that once the
Lectors know he has been notified, he will be well watched until he is
out of Cyad, and probably far longer than that.  He hopes the summons
comes for his studies, and not because of anything else-such as the
chaos compulsion he used on Halthor... but no one has said anything,
and Ryalth has only mentioned the trader's death as an accident.

The absolute certainty in his father's voice was more than enough to
discourage Lorn, for about magely matters, he knows his father is
always correct.  He pushes away those thoughts as he casually studies
the street he travels.

No one he knows-or who knows him-looks out from the Empty Quarter as he
passes the coffee house, but the awning that shields the vacant outside
tables is furled, and any patrons are well inside and out of the
wind.

The air holds an icy chill, despite the bright winter sunlight, and the
salt air bites at his exposed face and neck and hands.

He stops and waits on the edge of Third Harbor Way West as a
white-lacquered enclosed carriage, drawn by a matched pair of white
mares, whispers past him.  A gust of wind brings a hint of warmth, and
the smell of fresh-baked bread, followed by the tiniest hint of
erhenflower scent, possibly from the woman seated in the shielded
carriage.

Two lancer rankers stand on the far corner, their eyes following the
carriage, and Lorn cannot help but smile at their all too obvious
interest.  Then, will he end up standing on a corner in some
out-of-the-way town like Syadtar?  Or one of the towns bordering the
Accursed Forest-like Geliendra or Jakaafra?

Lorn shakes his head, then crosses the Way and takes the white stone
sidewalk on the far side down the gentle slope of the Third Harbor Way
to the lower plaza-the mer chanters plaza.  Even in the late afternoon
chill, a handful of the green and white striped awnings remain up over
a few carts.  Lorn makes his way around the carts toward the squat
white structure in the northwest corner of the plaza, his boots nearly
silent on the hard white paving stones.

Once he has stepped through the squared open archway of the Clan-less
Traders' building and is out of the wind, Lorn can feel his face begin
to thaw.  Despite the near-abandoned look of the plaza from outside,
within the building is filled with figures in blue, as well as some in
red, or green, or white.  None seem to mark the passage of the
enumerator Lorn emulates, at least not beyond an occasional frown, as
he takes the wide central stairs at the back of the covered central
hall flanked by balconies that rises all three stories.

Ryalth's trading place is little more than a cubby with two doors swung
wide at the back of the third level, so far into the northeast corner
that only the balcony railings can be seen from her doors.  The redhead
sits behind a true desk with drawers, an antique of battered and
time-darkened white oak, writing in what appears to be a ledger.

As Lorn steps through the open doors, he clears his throat, and with a
hint of a smile, asks, "Lady Trader?"

"Yes?"  Ryalth looks up and her mouth opens, then closes.

Lorn steps forward until his trousers brush the edge of the desk.  "I
wished to see you, honored trader."  His smile is both tentative and
guileless.

"You shouldn't be here-not at this time of day.  Enumerators' times are
either first thing in the morning or close to the close," Ryalth
murmurs, then adds more loudly, "I would that you had come at a more
appropriate time, young scr."

"I won't be able to do that," Lorn whispers.  "I'll be leaving Cyad
tomorrow or the next day, from what I've overheard, and there's nothing
I can do about it, and I couldn't have come to see you once they told
me."  He cocks his head inquisitively, and says in a normal voice.  "I
apologize, honored trader, but I was nearby, and thought I would not be
presuming too much.  I do apologize."

"You're leaving-Like that?"  she murmurs.  "Why?"

"Because I'm not a dedicated enough believer for the senior Magi'i, and
I'm either leaving, or I'll be found dead in a chaos transfer
accident."  His voice is low.  "I care for you... and I wanted to let
you know.  If I wait until it's official, then I couldn't tell you."
Ryalth shakes her head ruefully.

He slips a purse into her hand.  "Business.  I'll be back, one way or
another, and I couldn't take these.  I wouldn't have them without you.
Use them as you can."  He offers a warm smile.

"A purse?  Like that, and you expect me to wait for you?  As if I were
bought and paid for like... cotton?"

"No."  Lorn meets her eyes.  "I care for you, well beyond our shared
interests."  He swallows and shrugs.  "I can't ask you much... not with
what's happening.  But if you'd wait... at least a bit."

"I'd have to.  Then... we'll see."  Ryalth laughs softly, not quite
bitterly.  "But you have to take the book and read it... all of it."

"You're sure?  I could be gone for years."

"Then... it's even more important.  Read it."  Her words are half
choked, half hissed.  "I will."

"Promise?"

"Promise."  He reaches out and squeezes her hand, then lets his hand
fall away as he hears footsteps in the open arched corridor.

"I appreciate your interest, but there won't be anything where I can
use you for at least another eight day Ryalth says firmly, although her
eyes are bright.

"I see.  I will check with you then."

"During enumerators' times, if you would," Ryalth adds.  Lorn can see
the brightness in her eyes, and feels the same in his own.  He
swallows.  "Yes... Lady Trader."

Then he turns, letting his shoulders droop, a gesture not totally of
pretense, and walks dejectedly down the corridor toward the plaza
overlooking the white harbor.

As he leaves the plaza, he can feel the chill of his father's chaos
glass surveying him, but he has already done what must be done, and he
doubts that Kien'elth will pry further.  He hopes for that, at least.

XIII

Even the Emperors of the Land of Eternal Light embody the elements of
paradox that infuse and suffuse Cyador.... Most paradoxical is the
treatment of the memory of the Emperor Alyiakal.  Despite his many
successes in establishing the current borders of modern Cyador, and his
formalization of the balanced power structure that has come to govern
Cyador, he has become the "One Never to be Mentioned" among the Magi'i
and Mirror Lancers of Cyad.  The Magi'i wish to forget him because he
was a stronger magus than the First Magus and turned his back on what
he saw as the ever-narrowing traditions and inbreeding of the Magi'i,
then became a Mirror Lancer officer who used his magely abilities to
lead the northern Mirror Lancers in the devastation of Cerlyn and the
establishment of the northeastern cuprite mines.  By doing so, he
assured peace with the northern barbarians for more than a generation,
and a continued supply of cuprite ore for the continued formulation of
cupridium.  When he used those same lancers to become Emperor, he
insisted that the chaos energies be diverted from mere experimentation
to power chaos-cells for stone cutting and thus the building of the
Great Highways of Cyador, the completion of the Palace of Eternal Light
and the strengthening and lengthening of the Great Canal.... Yet for
all this, for which he and his memory should be revered, the paradox is
that he remains the magus of whom the Magi'i will never speak.

The Mirror Lancers avoid his name because it reminds them all too
clearly of their deficiencies in arms and other skills and because his
success continues to imply that merely being a Mirror Lancer is less
than sufficient to be a successful or great holder of the Malachite
Throne.... The simple fact that no Lancer commander has since matched
his feats makes the comparison even more odious... and, again, the
paradox is maintained: the greatest Mirror Lancer officer in the
history of Cyador is the least known as such.

Even the mer chanters dislike the image of Alyiakal, for they have none
of the talents that he embodied, and, therefore, they cannot aspire to
place one of their own, truly their own, upon the Malachite Throne, yet
it was largely the result of his policies as Emperor through which they
came to prosper.... Paradox of Empire

Bern'elth, Magus First

XIV

Lorn walks slowly along the covered upper portico of the dwelling,
trying to ignore both his faint headache and the patter and splat ting
the sudden winter rain, such a change from the frost of the day before
or even from the dryness of the afternoon.  His head seems to pulse
with the hissing of the rain and the dripping of the larger droplets
that have rolled off the tile roof and fall onto the edge of the walks
and the walls.

He finally stops outside the open door to his father's study, waiting
for a moment, as if to see whether his sire will notice.  When there is
no response or invitation, Lorn steps into the study.  "You summoned
me, serIn the storm-dim gloom, lightened by the oil lamps at each end
of the pale oak desk-table, Kien'elth looks up from the scroll he
peruses. "Sit down, Lorn."  The silver-haired magus sets the scroll
aside.  The crossed lightning bolts on his tunic radiate a faint golden
light of their own.

Although the silver-manteled lamps cast an even glow across the room,
suffusing with a warm light the blond wooden wall panels and the dark
amber leather of the volumes set in the bookcase built into the wall
beside the desk, the room is chill.  Lorn lowers himself into the hard
seat of the single armless and straight-backed wooden chair.  He faces
his father and waits.

"I have been talking to Lector Hyrist'elth and Lector
Chyenfel'elth...."  Kien'elth's fine eyebrows lift as if asking for
Lorn's response.  "Yes, scr."

"They have noted that while your knowledge and scholarship remain
outstanding, you do not manifest the love of the Magi'i and our works
that are necessary for true success as a magus."  Kien'elth studies his
son.  "We have discussed this before, Lorn, and I had hoped you would
change your approach to your studies and to the senior Lectors."

"Scr.... I have learned a great deal, and even the Lectors have
indicated that my studies have been superior."  Lorn lets a puzzled
expression cross his face.  "Have I not been diligent and enthusiastic
in my studies?"

There excellence in studies is not enough for a magus, Lorn. Enthusiasm
for studies alone is not sufficient, either.  One must always carry the
awareness that the Magi'i are what distinguishes Cyador from the
barbarians or the Hamorians-and what distinguished the Rational Stars
from the black angels.  Without the understanding of chaos as the font
of life and the core of prosperity, a flame lance is little more than a
brighter, sharper barbarian blade.  A fire wagon is little more than a
more powerful eight-horse team."

"I have always understood and accepted that, Father," Lorn says
truthfully.

"Yes... you have.  But you have not understood that there is a greater
good beyond personal accomplishments."  The older man offers a rueful
smile.  "Nor do you understand with your heart that golds are mere
counters in child's game, or that all Cyador rests on how the Magi'i
balance chaos and the black order."

Lorn represses a frown.  While his studies and his practical work as an
advanced student magus have touched upon the balancing of chaos with
the cold and deadly nature of order, this is the first time his father
has directly mentioned such balancing-or even suggested that he has
observed Lorn's clandestine merchanting ventures.

"I have prevailed upon my friendship with Captain-Commander Luss'alt to
have you accepted as a probationary officer trainee.  Luss'alt is in
charge of the Mirror Lancer operations throughout all Cyador, under
Majer-Commander Rynst'alt.  You also know, I am certain, that lancer
training is well away from Cyad."  Kien'elth pauses.

Lorn considers both the words and the pause.  Knowing that his father
is a closer acquaintance of Rynst'alt than would be normal from their
relative positions within the Quarter of the Magi'i, Lorn also
understands that there is much he does not understand, except that his
father thinks it is important that Lorn know a favor has been called
in, and that Rynst'alt has not been involved.  "Yes, scr."

"High Lector Chyenfel'elth and Lector Hyrist'elth are most impressed
with your talent, but not your attitude."  The older man gestures as if
to wave off any objection Lorn may raise.  "Yes, you are most
respectful.  Yes, you learn everything before you, and more.  Yes, you
have greater mastery of chaos forces than any other student magus and
probably a mastery greater than most of the fourth level adepts, and
even some third level Magi'i.  And you have greater potential than
that, even if you receive no more training.  However..."  Kien'elth
draws out the word.  "Now is not the best of times for a talented magus
to manifest less than perfect adulation."

"So Vernt is safe, then?"  inquires Lorn, understanding his own danger,
if not precisely all the possible forms that danger could lead to were
he to remain a student and become a full magus.  If he were allowed
that far.  Then he realizes what else his father has said and nods.

"He is safe.  He does not have either excessive talent or excessive
skepticism, and he will learn more, because he is patient, if not so
precociously brilliant as his elder brother."

"Is this because the towers are failing?"

Kien'elth raises his eyebrows.  "I should have guessed that you would
puzzle that out."  He pauses, steepling his fingers together.  "It
would not be wise for me, or for you, to discuss this farther.  So let
us talk of other matters.  You may recall that the barbarian attacks
are increasing, and increased attacks require greater chaos transfers
for fire wagons and fire-lances.  A greater number of fire lances must
be charged and transported north and west.  Likewise, more lancers must
be raised and trained, and more cupridium blades must be forged."
Kien'elth smiles, but his golden eyes remain concerned, and their
expression does not match that upon his mouth.

Lorn understands.  His father-all the Magi'i-live and work where the
truth, or falsehood, of every word they utter can be sensed and used in
one fashion or another-at least by the most talented of the Magi'i.
That understanding breeds caution even in settings that others might
consider safe from scrutiny.

"The need for more lancers means a need for more junior officers, and
that affords you an opportunity."  This time, his father's smile is
more complete.  "Although Luss'alt and I do not, shall we say, see
exactly eye to eye, he needs more capable junior officers, and he has
heard of your skills with a blade.  He has not heard of where you have
been... such as this afternoon.  I would not repeat such a visitation
as that before you leave Cyad, no matter what her charms may be."

"Yes, scr.  Thank you.  Very much.  I will do my best."

"I'm sure you will.  And in the Mirror Lancers, success is measured
more by ability than by attitude."  Kien'elth laughs.  "Not totally...
but more."

"I understand."  Lorn also understands the warning.  The Mirror Lancers
are no different from the Magi'i, except that most Lancer officers
cannot truth read and therefore must judge more by actions than by
hidden intent revealed by truth reading

"You will leave for Kynstaar tomorrow.  There will be a fire wagon
departing from the school.  You will doubtless face some difficulties,
there, but... you have surmounted such before, and I have every
confidence that you will again."

"Yes, scr."  Lorn nods.

Kien'elth stands slowly.  "I wish..."  He shrugs apologetically.

Lorn also stands.  "I know, scr.  It's not your doing."

"I can still wish, my son."

Lorn lowers his head for a moment.

After he leaves the study, Lorn walks slowly along the covered portico
of the upper level of the house, pausing to look southward through the
rain that is beginning to taper off toward the gray stormy waters of
the harbor, waters more often than not usually an intense blue, with
the intensity of the water's color underscored by the white sunstone
piers.  Today, the piers are gray, like the sky and the water.

Then he descends one level and slips toward the rear of the dwelling.
There, he pauses before the closed door of his older sister's
chambers.

"You can come in, Lorn," Jerial calls.

He opens the heavy oak door, slowly, and closes it behind him.

As usual, Jerial wears a form-fitting tunic-this one of a silky black
that shows her petite but well-endowed figure.  She stands beside a
polished white oak table desk that is almost empty, and her eyes are
intent as she studies Lorn.  Beyond the narrow archway, Lorn sees the
bed chamber, with the dark blue coverlet set neatly on the narrow bed,
and the tables as neat as the sitting room where they stand.

"Dice?"  Lorn looks at the six white cubes on his sister's table.  "I
suppose there's the uniform of a beardless junior lancer in your
wardrobe?"

"No."  Jerial smiles back.  "That of a young mer chanter a spoiled
youth who has more coins than sense.  Someone who loses most of the
time, but loses little, and wins seldom, but well.  Not, shall we say,
a scholarly enumerator."

Lorn looks from the dice to the wardrobe and then back to the dice.

"Why not?"  asks Jerial.  "I can be a healer, or a brood mare.  Neither
will gain me golds nor independence."

"You have the golds invested in the Exchange?"  Lorn raises his
eyebrows.

"No.  The Bank of the Clanless Traders.  There's no interest, but far
fewer questions."

"Something like Jeron'mer?"

"You might say so," Jerial replies, "but I'd appreciate your not
asking."

"In case you're forced into being a brood mare?  So I can't reveal
anything to father?"

Jerial nods, then smiles wryly.  "I like Cyad, Lorn, but not enough to
consort with someone I detest.  So far, I've managed to steer father
away from people like Ciesrt...."

"I see."  His sister's words remind Lorn-again-that he has yet to do
anything about the impending consorting of Myryan to Ciesrt.  His eyes
light on Jerial's face, taking in the determined and set chin, the hard
and piercing blue eyes.  "What's Ciesrt's weakness?"  Jerial shrugs.
"He has no strengths."  Lorn nods.  "And no principles, except
self-interest."

"You, my brother, do well enough to conceal such."  Jerial's eyebrows
both arch.

"Maybe I'm like him, then."

"No one would ever say that, even Dettaur, and he detests you.  He
thinks you're the one who broke his fingers years ago."

"That could be a problem in time to come.  I'm leaving for Kynstaar in
the morning," Lorn says quietly.

"Is that why you're here?"

"I thought you'd like to know."  He grins insouciantly, as if he were
on the korfal field or in a coffee house.

"At least you can be an officer, and Dettaur won't be that senior to
you."

"If I don't get thrown from a mount or 'accidentally' incinerated by a
fire lance you mean?"  Lorn's laugh is half humorous, half deprecating.
"I have some chance of surviving there."

"You have no illusions, brother dear?"  Jerial's laugh is somehow both
ironic and supportive.  "That will doubtless help."

"I wanted to talk about healing," he says.

Jerial nods.  "You would."

"I've seen you and Myryan do it.  There's a black mist that enfolds
you-is that why you like black?"

"Black has its uses, one of which is illusion."

"Ciesrt wouldn't like black," Lorn notes.  "About the healing?"

"I think of it almost as an order of sorts.  It's the opposite of the
surging power of chaos, and there really are two kinds of chaos, the
unclean kind in a wound and the kind in the towers and the power cells
of the fire wagons-"

"You've never been near a tower," Lorn says.

"I don't have to be.  Father has been clear that the chaos that powers
the fire wagons is the same as the chaos that come from the towers.
You've all talked about how the Magi'i transfer that chaos into the
fire wagons and I've certainly been close enough to fire wagons to
sense the difference."

"And you've looked with all your senses.  Most healers don't."

"Except healers raised in this house," counters Jerial.

"That's true enough."  He glances from Jerial to the dice, and then
back to her fine-featured face, a visage that, for all its beauty,
might have been carved from sunstone or granite.

"What do you want to do with what I show you?"  Jerial asks.

Lorn offers a lazy smile, hoping he will not have to respond
verbally.

"Brother dear... you're sweet when you want to be, but you use everyone
and everything."  Her hard smile softens.  "Sometimes."

"I've tried not to hurt either of you."

"You've learned to use people, including us, without hurting them, but
it's still use, Lorn.  Remember when you gave both Myryan and me those
chaos-cut emeralds set in cupridium."

"Yes," Lorn admits warily.

"You never told mother and father, did you?"

"No."

"But they knew all the same."  Jerial smiles as if the answer were
obvious.

"I suppose so."

"How would either of us wear something that costly without mother or
father asking?"  She laughs.  "That way, you created the impression of
modesty and caring."  A shrug follows.  "I know you care, but you also
wanted them to know you cared, and you impressed them all the more by
doing it quietly."  A crooked smile follows.  "And... they couldn't ask
you how you managed to come up with all those golds."

Lorn flushes.

"How did you?  Gambling... or theft?"

Lorn steels himself, then shrugs reluctantly.  "Neither.  Trade.  You
know that.  That's why you talked about enumerators."

"You aren't allowed handle coins, and the Lectors-oh... who is it? What
woman, I should ask.  It would have to be a mer chanter woman."
Abruptly, she laughs.  "The scent!  Of course."  Jerial shakes her
head.  "So much scent that we all thought..."

"I don't believe you've met her," Lorn says quietly.  "I've known her
for over a year.  Over two," he corrects himself.

"Do you... I won't ask that."

"Thank you."

"You must want to know about healing badly... or you wouldn't have
given away so much.  You can't use it on yourself, you know?  Except to
keep flux-chaos out, if you have the strength."

"I know."

"Very astute."  Jerial nods.  "I'll show you some more."  She smiles.
"Myryan told me what she showed you."

"A man has no secrets...."  he protests.

"From his sisters?"  She laughs warmly.  "Not too many, but you hold
more than most men."

Lorn sincerely hopes so.  Most sincerely.

XV

Lorn stands beside the immaculate white oak desk-table in his own
chambers, glancing out through the glass window at the cold mist that
has replaced the earlier rain.  He will be leaving in the morning for
Kynstaar, and his promise to Myryan remains unfulfilled.  He purses his
lips as he looks toward the rain he does not see.

The problem with Ciesrt is not the student magus himself, who is about
to become a fourth level adept, but his sire, Kharl'elth, the Second
Magus and Senior Lector.  Consorting Myryan to Ciesrt is advantageous
to both families.  The talent for handling chaos runs strongly in
Kien'elth's children, even in Vernt, if slightly less powerfully, and
any children that Myryan might bear will have a far better chance of
holding the talent than those of anyone else that Ciesrt might take as
consort.  The alliance will also benefit Vernt, and both parents-even
Lorn.  The one person it will not benefit is the sensitive Myryan.

Lorn frowns.  With the little time he has remaining, so far as he can
determine, he has limited choices.  To remove Ciesrt's father or to
persuade his own father to act otherwise.  Can he justify murdering a
man because his sister Myryan is unhappy with her proposed consort? Yet
Lorn has promised to do something.

He has to do something.

For a few moments more, he watches the misting rain.  Then he turns
quickly and walks out of his chamber, leaving the door open.  He makes
his way up the stone steps to the uppermost level of the house, pausing
briefly in the open air of the covered portico to look through the late
twilight toward the harbor, mostly obscured in mist and rain, with the
evening beacons not yet lit for late-arriving ships.

Finally he approaches the study door, closed-and knocks.  The brief
chill that is in the mind and that betokens screeing crosses him.

"You can come in, Lorn."

Lorn steps into the warmth of the study and closes the white oak door
behind him.  His father looks up from behind the wide desk, but does
not stand.  The two look at each other for a time.

Lorn waits, the bare hint of a smile on his lips, an expression that is
one of his most somber.

"It's too late for last chances, you know," Kien'elth says mildly.  "I
warned you for almost two years about your lack of enthusiasm."

"I know.  You did what you could.  That wasn't why I wanted to talk to
you.  It's nothing about me."

Kien'elth raises his fine white eyebrows, then fingers his chin. "Lorn,
pardon me if I appear somewhat... skeptical... but many of your
exploits have not exactly borne the stamp of altruism.  I felt your
mercantile ventures were, shall we say, useful for your education and
understanding of how Cyad operates, and you did maintain yourself with
a certain dignity and were not involved in anything too sordid."  The
older man clears his throat.  "What did you have in mind?"

"I'm worried about Myryan, scr."  Lorn wasn't sure how else he could
put it.  "She's more sensitive than most people realize.  That's why
she's a good healer, of course."

"You don't think she should be a healer?"

"She should be a healer.  I'm not sure she should be a consort," Lorn
says slowly, deciding against elaborating immediately.

"Lorn..."  Kien'elth draws out his son's name, as he always has when he
disagrees with Lorn-or anyone else.

Lorn steels himself to wait, knowing that his father always draws
things out to make an adversary more uncomfortable and to force
revelation or haste.

Kien'elth looks directly at his son, as if to press for more
explanation.  Lorn resists the impulse and continues to wait.

A wry smile crosses Kien'elth's face, and he finally speaks.  "Your
mother was a most sensitive healer, but she has managed to be both
consort and healer."

"Yes, scr."  Lorn nods.  "But much of her ability to be both has rested
upon you, scr."

Kien'elth laughs.  "You'd use my own vanity against me, Lorn.  Or
anything else, I suppose."

"Vanity or not, scr, it's true."

"I can tell you believe that-mostly."  Kien'elth leans back slightly in
his chair and steeples his fingers, not looking quite directly at his
son.

Lorn waits, noting absently that the pattering of the rain on the roof
has returned.  Or perhaps the pattering is sleet, since the sound is
harder than that of rain droplets.  He cannot tell, because both
windows are shuttered.

"Tell me.  Lorn... are you opposed to Myryan's becoming a consort of
Ciesrt-or of anyone?"

Lorn offers a frown.  "I think that Myryan is not ready to be consorted
to anyone.  I also think that being consorted to someone like Ciesrt
would harm her.  I don't think she could continue her best as a healer,
and..."  He shrugs in trying to convey without saying exactly those
words that being a consort might have extremely detrimental
consequences for his younger sister.

"No one is ready for being consorted.  I wasn't; your mother wasn't;
you won't be; and Myryan's no exception."  Kien'elth's words carry a
sense of finality, as if the argument is over.

"Myryan's different."  Loin's tone is stronger than he intended.

"You believe that.  You really do."  Kien'elth shakes his head, and his
sun-gold eyes somehow darken.  "All you young people think that you're
different, that we were never young, not the way you are, that we never
felt what you feel, that we can't possibly understand what you're going
through."  Kien'elth snorts.  "I'd wager that every generation has felt
that way about its parents."

"I'm not suggesting that, scr.  Not at all.  I'm suggesting that, out
of the four of us, Myryan is different.  Jerial will handle anything
that comes to her, and so will Vernt.  I hope that I can.  At the very
least, Myryan needs more time to learn who she is.  And she needs a
consort who is as considerate as you have been to mother."  Lorn fears
he has said too much, but what he has already said has made little
impression.

The pattering on the roof rises to a violent drumming, then abruptly
dies away, and a gust of cold air sweeps into the room through the
closed shutters, indicating that perhaps one of the windows is not
completely tight.

"You would judge such?"

"Noser  I would offer my thoughts and my understandings to you.  I
offer them in part because I will not be here after tomorrow, and I do
fear for and care for my sister.  Were I not leaving, I would not
speak."

"Such caring does you credit, Lorn, but do you not think that I also
care for the well-being of my daughter?  Do you not think that I see
her sensitivity?  That I wish to see her protected in times that are
likely to be turbulent and changing?  That I can only offer her that
protection through a consort who is strong and well-placed?"

Lorn almost responds, then checks his tongue, and nods.  "I have never
questioned your concerns for us.  Or your efforts to help us as you
can.  Any decision about consorting Myryan will be yours, and I know
you love her dearly.  So do I. I would only see the best for her, scr,
and I have offered my concerns to you, knowing you will do as you
must."

Kien'elth shakes his head slowly.  "Still... you surprise me, Lorn.
There are times when I wonder if you were ever a child."

Again, Lorn waits for his father to continue.

"You remind me more of Toziel'elth'alt'mer than anyone in our family,
with layers upon layers hidden behind your eyes."  Kien'elth
straightens.  "I hope so, because you will need all that devious
honesty, and more, in the years ahead.  Now... I will think upon what
you have said.  That is all I will promise."

Lorn bows his head.  "Thank you, serIf that is all... ?"  Kien'elth
rises.

"That's all, scr.  Thank you for hearing me."

"I'd be a poor father if I didn't listen, Lorn."  Kien'elth clears his
throat again before he adds.  "I'll think about your words, but we
don't always have the choices others think we do.  Try to remember
that."

"Yes, scr."  Lorn bows again before he leaves the study.

Outside, he looks out through the darkness, seeing the fragments of
white on the neighboring roofs, white tatters that are all that remain
of the brief hail that has pelted Cyad.  Night has replaced twilight,
and the harbor is marked only by the pier beacons, while the Palace of
Light beams through the mist that enshrouds Cyad.

Lorn walks down the steps and then enters his own room.

Myryan sits at the straight chair turned away from his desk.

"Myryan..."

"You were talking to father about me, weren't you?"  She stands quickly
to face him.

"Weren't you?"

"Yes."

A faint smile crosses her face, and she half-consciously pushes back
strands of curly black hair.  "You upset him.  I could feel it.  He
upset you, didn't he?"

"Some.  I don't think he understands, and... that bothers me."

Abruptly, she lurches forward and hugs him-tightly.  "Thank you don't
know if... but... thank you."

As he holds Myryan, Lorn's eyes burn, for he fears that his effort may
have been too little.

XVI

In the chilly midday light, Lorn stands by the sunstone bench beside
the main entrance to the Quarter of the Magi'i.  Beside the bench is a
single canvas bag, containing smallclothes, toiletries, and a few small
personal items, including, buried deeply, Ryalth's ancient book, the
book he has promised to read and has not-yet.

Behind him, the squared arches of the entrance glitter in the sun.  The
light reflecting off the chaos-altered sunstone shifts moment to moment
even though the sky is clear and cloudless, all traces of the rain and
hail of the day before gone, except for hints of dampness on the stones
where the sun has not struck.

As he waits, Lorn turns and studies the square arch that leads into the
center building, a structure seemingly of smooth stone and tinted
windows.  The arch itself bears no decorations, no carved figures, no
embellishments.  Then there are few embellishments and only scattered
statuary throughout Cyad.  The City of Light is its own art, Lorn
reflects as he notes that the only breaks in the seamless stone are the
words across the center of the arch itself.

"Chaos is the heart of life; the Magi'i serve life and chaos."  He
murmurs the words to himself.  Is that why he will never be a magus,
because he cannot bend himself to serve?  Or serve blindly?  He frowns,
but the frown vanishes as he turns toward the sound of heavy
footsteps.

Ciesrt, nearly as lanky as Lorn's brother Vernt, but more
broad-shouldered and far heavier on his feet, lumbers awkwardly toward
Lorn.  "Greetings," Lorn offers.

"So... you're going to be a lancer?"  Ciesrt half-smiles, but the smile
conceals nervousness.

"I'm being sent for lancer training.  If I become a lancer officer
depends on how I do."  Lorn follows the words with a rueful smile.

Ciesrt nods, thoughtfully.  "I suppose it doesn't matter how good we
are, but only how well our efforts are seen by those above us."

Lorn conceals another frown.  He hadn't expected something like that
from Ciesrt.  "Someone has to decide."

"You always wanted to be the one, Lorn," Ciesrt adds quietly.  "You're
pretty good at concealing it, but... not good enough for the Magi'i.
Maybe you'll do better with the lancers."  Ciesrt's muddy-green eyes
fix on Lorn.  "Sometimes, it's better to go with the chaos flow on more
than the surface."

Lorn nods, waiting.

"Good luck."  Ciesrt offers a half-smile, then turns.  "Thank you."
Lorn watches the lanky student magus for a moment, wondering if he had
indeed made a mistake in not trying to deal with Ciesrt's father.
Yet... all he had to go on were his feelings, and he didn't think
murder should be based on feelings alone.  Should it?

He turns at the sound of another set of lighter steps on the white
stone pavement.

The red-haired Tyrsal stops short of the bench.  "I'm sorry, Lorn.  I
don't understand.  You were the best student."

"It's probably better this way."

"Is there anything I can do?"  Tyrsal grins.  "I mean, here in Cyad. If
you're careful, you can take care of yourself better than I could. I
still remember how you handled Dett."  The redhead frowns.  "He's
probably a lancer officer now.  You'd better be careful."

"I will."  Lorn pauses.  "You could stop by the house a few times and
talk to my sisters.  You've met them, haven't you?"

"Just Myryan."

"Jerial's my older sister.  They're both healers, but Myryan's got
several years before she's finished."

"Like Kylernya, except she's just started."

"She's that old?"  Lorn remembers Tyrsal's sister as barely waist-high,
watching a korfal game.

Tyrsal nods.  "It will be a while before she gets into real healing."
He pauses.  "I'd be welcome at your house?"

"You're a student magus in good standing."  Lorn laughs gently.  "If
you're worried about it, tell Vernt that I asked you to."

"We'll see.  I will call on them."  Tyrsal pauses.  "Are you sure
that's all I can do?"

"For right now."  Lorn shrugs.  "I really don't know what to expect...
but if I need anything else, I'll let you know."  If I can.

"I'll be here," Tyrsal promises, before he turns away.

The lancer fire wagon is late in getting to the Quarter of the Magi'i,
and Lorn has been waiting on or standing beside the hard sunstone bench
for most of the afternoon before the vibration of six chaos-driven
wheels shivers through the pavement, and the shimmering white vehicle
slows to a stop opposite the squared stone arch.  Shadows from the
uphill buildings that hold the chaos towers of the Magi'i cast two bars
of darkness across the gleaming white lacquer of the fire wagon  The
curved glass of the driver's station reflects the shadowed sunstone
behind Lorn enough so that Lorn cannot see the driver of the vehicle
that looms at least another six cubits above the smooth pavement.

As Lorn stands quickly, he can sense the flickers of chaos from the
storage cells that are hidden behind the shining white cupridium panels
at the rear of the fire wagon  As quickly as the former student mage
has stood, a lancer officer in a cream and green uniform is already out
of the forward compartment.  The two single silver bars, one on each
side of his short stiff green collar, glow.  The officer's eyes take in
Lorn and the canvas bag beside the bench.  "You Lorn?"

"Yes, scr," Lorn answers.

"Hop in.  Rear compartment.  Only three of you today.  Be close to
midnight before we reach Kynstaar."

As the officer watches, Lorn opens the side door to the rear
compartment, a door of white-lacquered cupridium, light, but stronger
than iron.

"Put your stuff under the seat."

"Yes, scr."  Lorn glances at the two other young men.  One is clearly
older and far burlier than Lorn, with a swarthy complexion and a
short-trimmed black beard-one of the first beards Lorn has seen on a
young man.  The second is slighter and far more wiry than Lorn, with
hair that is somewhere between sandy-blond and light brown.  "I'm
Lorn."

"Akytol'alt," rumbles the larger man.

"KyI'mer," follows the slighter figure.

"Well... I was Lorn'elth," Lorn corrects himself as he places his bag
under the curved white oak bench seat and seats himself beside Kyl and
facing Akytol and the other seat, "but that will change."

"One way or the other," snorts Akytol.

Even before Lorn closes the door, the vehicle begins to glide away from
the Quarter of the Magi'i with the thin and distinctive whine that
marks all fire wagons  Despite the hardness of the lightly padded
seats, their curvature makes sitting tolerable, and the suspension is
strong enough that the ride is almost without bumps.

Through the right window, just before the fire wagon turns north, Lorn
takes what may be his last look for a long time at the Palace of Light,
its windows bright with the light from the innumerable lamps within its
sun-stone walls.  Despite the gleaming whiteness and the lights, for a
moment, or so it seems to Lorn, the Palace seems empty.

"Ever lifted a blade?"  asks Akytol.

"I've had some training," Lorn admits.

"Some?  Well... better than most."  Akytol shakes his head, then leans
back and closes his eyes.

Lorn turns to Kyl.  "If one might ask... ?"

"How did a mer chanter son get sent off to lancer training?"  Kyl
shakes his head.  "Another time... if you would."

"That's fine by me."  Lorn nods.  He suspects neither of them is
interested in revealing much, especially not with Akytol present.

Kyl turns his head to watch the buildings on the west side of North
Avenue pass by.

In turn, Lorn watches those on the east side-and the few carts and
carriages, and the scattered handfuls of people, a few in shimmer cloth
but most in the green cottons of workers and crafters.  Before long,
Cyad lies behind them and the fire wagon has turned eastward onto the
Eastern Highway.  The sun has dropped below the horizon, and the clear
green-blue sky has begun to purple.

Lorn sees as well as senses the glow of chaos that surrounds the
fire-wagon as it rolls through the twilight toward Kynstaar, the only
sound the low rumble of the six cupridium-coated iron wheels on the
whitened granite of the Great Eastern Highway.  To an outsider the
vehicle would indeed resemble a horseless and fire-swathed wagon or
carriage.

Across from him, Akytol sits back, his eyes closed, a faint snore
punctuating his sleep.  Kyl glances nervously from Lorn to Akytol, and
then for long periods out the tinted window.  There is no sound from
the front compartment and the unnamed lancer officer.

Finally, Lorn closes his own eyes.  He can do nothing until he reaches
Kynstaar.

Part II Lorn'alt, Isahl Undercaptain, Mirror Lancers

XVII

Lorn'alt stands rigidly in formal lancer whites, white-scabbarded sabre
at his side, white garrison cap set squarely in place over his short
brown hair.  He is the fourth man in the front line of five new Mirror
Lancer officers, listening to the graying but trim lancer commander
standing on the podium before the score of new under captains ranked in
the open sunstone arena-an arena nearly empty except for the officers
who had trained them, who had whittled down three score possible
candidates to the score who remained nearly a year later.  A score had
left voluntarily, and a score had died or been too severely injured to
continue.  "you are the first line of defense against the barbarians of
the north.  At times, you will be all that stands between Cyador and
the black order of death...."

Standing one rank back and three junior officers to his left is
Kyl'alt, and somewhere farther to the rear, surprisingly, is
Akytol'alt, towering over most of the other new under captains  Lorn
concentrates on the commander's words, as though they were new, as
though he had not already heard similar banalities all his life. "never
has our world had a land that offered so much to so many for so long...
never has our world had a light that has shone so brightly as that
raised by Cyador... and you are here to ensure that light will shine
forever, and that peace and prosperity will reign endlessly.  You are a
Mirror Lancer officer.  Never forget that!  Never forget that you are
here because generations of Lancer officers have stood between the dark
tide of the order of death and the light and prosperity of chaos. That
was their duty, and they did it well.  May you carry out your duty as
well."

After a moment of silence, the commander adds, "You will step forward
as your name is called."  He pauses, then announces, "Undercaptain
Bruk'alt."

When the commander calls Lorn's name, the former student magus steps
forward as had the others.  The commander hands the two silver bars to
Lorn.

"Thank you, scr."

"Don't thank me, Undercaptain.  You earned them, and you will continue
to earn them every day you are on duty in the service of Cyador- and
even when you are not."

"Yes, scr."

"Lorn'alt..."  the commander offers in an even lower voice.

"Yes, scr?"

"Perchance I am wrong, but you could easily have been first in the
training company."  The flint-gray eyes never leave Lorn's.

"Scr... I wanted to do well, but I also was more concerned about
learning everything I could.  I made mistakes that way, scr."

The faintest of smiles crinkles the commander's lined face.  "I hope
that's the truth, Undercaptain Lorn.  The Lancers have no place for
officers who let someone else be first to blunt the charge, and then
rise to take credit.  Do you understand that?"

"Yes, scr."

The commander nods brusquely, and Lorn turns and steps back to his
place in the formation.

"Undercaptain Jykan'alt..."

XVIII

Lorn stands in the narrow hallway, sabre at his side, white garrison
cap rucked in his belt, waiting for his interview with the majer who
will inform Lorn just what duty he will undertake for the Mirror
Lancers in the service of Cyador.  Although it is early winter, nearly
a year after he had left the Quarter of the Magi'i, the air flowing
through the outside arch to his left is warm and moist, more like
spring in Cyad, carrying with it a hint of arymid.  But then, Kynstaar
is actually south and east of Cyad, where the southern currents of the
Great Western Ocean first touched Candar before swinging westward and
north.

Lorn shifts his weight, trying to hear the conversation beyond the
door, but even his magus-honed skills can only enable him to catch
phrases.  "being posted to Hristak... Great Canal south to Fyrad...
Majer Derin'alt... two scrolls... and seal ring... understand?"

"Yes, scr!"  Rydenber's words are far louder and clearer than the
ma-jer's.

After Rydenber steps out through the open white oak door, Lorn waits a
moment before entering Majer Styphi's office.  Light floods into the
small space from an open window to Lorn's right and the majer's left.
The office contains little besides the desk, an oil lamp set head-high
in a bronze bracket on the stone wall, and two chairs.

Majer Styphi sits on one chair, behind the small desk that he
dominates.  At his right hand is a neat stack of scrolls.  His cream
and green tunic is slightly wrinkled, and darkness fills the hollows
under his eyes, but his green eyes are hard and fix on Lorn.
"Undercaptain Lorn'alt?"

"Yes, scr."

"You're being posted to Isahl.  First, you will take the lancer fire
wagon tomorrow morning.  It will take you and a number of others to the
transfer station on the Great North Highway.  There you will wait and
take the regular fire wagon to Syadtar.  That's where you will pick up
the replacement lancers and Nytral-he's a seasoned squad leader. Then
you'll take the lancers and the replacement mounts on the trade road
northwest to Isahl.  Sub-majer Brevyl is the area commander. You'll
report to him."  The majer hands a scroll to Lorn.  "This scroll
confirms that."  He hands a cupridium seal ring to Lorn.  "There's your
seal ring.  Don't lose it.  Nytral will ask to see it, just like every
other good squad leader you'll command when you're coming in alone."  A
second smaller scroll follows.  "Here are his posting orders.  There
are two copies there for you-one goes to Commander Thiataphi's clerk in
Syadtar, the other to Nytral.  You understand?"

"Yes, scr."  Lorn slips the seal ring onto the third finger of his
right hand.  The ring fits well enough that it will not slip off.

"You'll draw a mount in Syadtar.  Choose it carefully."

"Yes, scr."

"Get your kit together.  Then spend some time with your fellows.  Most
of you won't see each other for some time."

Lorn bows once more before he turns and leaves.

Kyl is waiting outside in the group of under captains who have yet to
see Majer Styphi.  He glances inquiringly at Lorn.  "Where are you
headed?"

Lorn grins.  "Where every good lancer goes.  To fight the barbarians of
the Grass Hills.  In a town called Isahl."

"It's better than the guard detail in Geliendra where you have to
patrol the borders of the Accursed Forest," volunteers Kyl.

"Right," murmurs someone.  "Dark-angel-right..."

"You won't get Forest duty, Kyl," Lorn says.  "You know trade.  They'll
probably assign you to one of the coast patrols to deal with smugglers
or something like that."

"I'll know in a bit."  The sandy-haired undercaptain inclines his head
toward the building door and Majer Styphi.  "I wouldn't mind that." Kyl
smiles.  "I wouldn't mind anything, actually."

Lorn is not so sure that he would be equally happy with all duties, but
since he has no choice over his duty assignment, he sees no point in
comparing the potential satisfaction of duty assignments he would be
unlikely to get.  "I'll talk to you later, and you can tell me where
you're headed."

"I will," promises Kyl.

As Lorn turns, he overhears the comments.  "good as he is... not many
make it back from the Hills of Endless Grass...."  "anyone who does
makes full captain and majer quick though...."  "maybe... but he was
magus-born... some don't like that...."  Lorn takes in the low words
most would not have believed he has heard, then nods to several others
as he passes, walking back to the small cubicle that contains his
uniforms, his weapons, and his handful of personal items.

The fire wagon to the north will not depart until the following
morning, assuming it is on schedule, and that will leave him time to
write scrolls to his parents, to Myryan... and to Ryalth... before he
follows the majer's advice and talks a last time with the other new
under captains

And, as he promised, he will read from Ryalth's book, though he does
not know if he understands the Firstborn any better for all the words
he has read in the green-silver covered volume.

XIX

As the low orange light of dawn fills the front compartment of the
fire-wagon, Lorn yawns and rubs his eyes.  Although he had garnered a
short night's sleep on a hard cot at the highway transfer station
located in Ilypsya-a town beside the Great North Highway that Lorn had
never heard of-after more than two days of near-continuous travel from
Ilypsya, except for short comfort stops, Lorn is tired.  The flickering
chaos that envelops the vehicle bothers none of the other passengers,
it seems, but Lorn finds himself still studying it.  Even though he is
no longer a student magus, in a strange fashion the flickering almost
seems to nag at him, more so than when he had studied chaos.

The six wheels rumble more loudly than those of the lancer fire wagon
that had brought him to Ilypsya, but that might well have been because
the regular coach carries a good fifty-score stone of goods in the hold
between the small front compartment and the larger rear compartment,
where a good half-score passengers are squeezed together.

A slight snoring comes from the mer chanter in blue shimmer cloth
slumped in the bench facing Lorn.  The trader is a young man no more
than a handful of years older than Lorn, if that, but who sports a
short brush mustache in a clear effort to appear older.  Beside the
young mer chanter is an older man in deep brown-a wealthy miller
returning to Syadtar, Lorn has gathered, and on the far left sleeps
another mid-aged man also in brown who has spoken but little since Lorn
joined the others at Ilypsya.  The last man in the front compartment,
to Lorn's left, also sleeping, wears the crimson-trimmed brown of a
regional guard, but the silver stars in his collar signify that he is a
district commander.  As Lorn's eyes light on him, his head turns, and
he emits a grunt.

Ignoring the ripe odor of male bodies confined in too warm a space for
too long, Lorn stifles another yawn and shifts his weight on the curved
and lightly padded white oak of the seat he has to share only with the
district guard commander, at least until the next stop, unless that
stop is Syadtar.  Each fire wagon Lorn knows, can make but one run to
Syadtar and back before the chaos in the cells in the back of the
vehicle must be replenished, and the vehicle makes but two round trips
every eight day  Were he not a lancer officer, Lorn's passage-fare
would have been at least a gold-and in the crowded rear compartment.

Abruptly, the mer chanter sits up and glances out the window.  "Getting
close to Syadtar, I see."

Lorn follows the other's eyes, but the hills to the north look no
different to him from the ones he had seen the night before-or not
enough different to indicate anything.  But he is used to the forests
and irregular hills north of Cyad itself-not the scattered farms and
the grasslands of the east that are north of the Accursed Forest and
the Great Canal that links the fertile lands between the rivers with
Fyrad.  "Because the farms are closer together?"

The mer chanter shakes his head.  "The hills.  They're longer here-like
they've been stretched out.  They get shorter and steeper as you go
west.  Much more rugged, they are."

Lorn nods.

"You'll see.  Are you going to Isahl or Pemedra?"

"Are those the only two choices?"  Lorn counters.

"For a new undercaptain, they are.  You're probably pretty good with a
blade and a fire lance I'd wager.  No?"

"Better than many," Lorn admits.

"That's why you're there.  Glad you are.  Wouldn't travel this route
weren't for the lancers.  Barbarians be through Syadtar like grease
through a goose."  The mer chanter laughs.  "Grease through a goose.
Faster than coin spent by a pleasure girl."

The miller sits up.  "Begging your pardon, trader, but it be early, and
Syadtar is not here yet.  Some of us lack the endurance we once had."

"My apologies," offers the young mer chanter  "My apologies, scr."

The miller grunts and closes his eyes.

"You'll see," murmurs the trader to Lorn, leaning back with a wry look
at the miller before closing his own eyes.

Lorn closes his eyes for a time, but he can no longer sleep to the
rumbling of the wheels, and his eyes stray back to the window.

The first sign that the fire wagon is approaching Syadtar is the
appearance of scattered farmhouses-similar in their green tile roofs,
green ceramic privacy screens before the front doors, and the green
shutters open but ready to be closed against night or weather.  Yet
each is subtly different, with a lighter or darker shade of cream or
off-white plaster on its walls and with different types of bushes and
trees planted to create privacy areas behind the dwellings where the
girls and the women may appear without being revealed to passers-by.

Then comes something Lorn has not seen before in Cyador-a white
sunstone city wall-one nearly ten cubits high.  There are no guards,
but the fire wagon passes through the open heavy oak gates and
well-kept ramparts and twin guard towers.

Past the gates are the wide white-granite streets of the small city,
with the scattered green and white awnings, although those are furled
in the early light of day, except for one, which signifies a coffee
house.  Lorn frowns momentarily.

"You're right," says the mer chanter stretching.  "Won't be many coffee
houses afore long, not with the blight."

"Blight?"  Lorn asks involuntarily.

"Order blight-blacks spots on the underside of the leaves, then, poof!
No more coffee plants."

"Magi'i will find something to stop it, or the healers," rumbles the
district guard commander, slowly straightening on his part of the bench
he shares with Lorn.

The fire wagon is slowing, and Lorn's eyes go back to the buildings
they pass.  Syadtar is a miniature of Cyad, at least in that the
buildings are all of white sunstone, but smaller than those of the
great City of Eternal Light-and there are far fewer of more than one
level.  The light is more intense, even early, perhaps because there
are no trees within Syadtar.  Lorn sees none, at least.

"Maybe they will, honored scr, but shipments of the beans have dropped
to nothing from the fields north of Fyrad, and those from Geliendra are
half what they were last year."

"Don't be underestimating the Magi'i, trader," suggests the district
guard commander.  "Most of those that have are ashes."

"Ah... yes, your honor.  "The mer chanter mustache bobs as he
swallows.

"Bah... not that much honor in being a district guard.  The lancers
have the honor."  The older man's eyes twinkle as he winks at Lorn.

Lorn hides a smile, but says, "Without the guard, the lancers would be
spread far thinner."

The mer chanter looks from one arms man to the other, bewildered, then
looks to the window.  "We are here, sers."

"Good."  The commander winks once more at Lorn.

The fire wagon slows under a large covered sunstone portico.

After a moment, one of the green-uniformed drivers opens the door of
the front compartment.  "Syadtar, officers, kind sers."

Lorn glances to the District Commander.

"Go ahead, Undercaptain.  Let a stiff commander take his time.  You
have much farther to go than do I."

"Thank you, scr."  With that, Lorn reaches under the curved and lightly
padded bench seat and pulls out his kit, then steps out into the
sunlight, for it is far too early for the tile roof above to shade
passengers or the fire wagon itself.  After slipping the white garrison
cap from his belt and donning it, he glances at the fire wagon driver,
or one of the two, standing beside the open glass cupola.  "Do you know
which way to the Lancer headquarters?"

"Go one block east, to the Avenue of the Square, then head toward the
hills.  It's about a kay north."

"Thank you."

Carrying his kit in his left hand, Lorn begins to walk eastward,
feeling a hint of dampness on his forehead where the front of the
garrison cap rests.

"Poor bastard..."

Lorn holds in a wince at the pity in the driver's voice.  He thinks he
knows what he is facing, but more than a few people seem to think his
assignment is a death sentence.

Two youths in faded blue under tunics and trousers careen down the
street, then, seeing Lorn, abruptly dash down a side alley.  An older
man in a brown tunic so faded it is closer to tan leans on a walking
stick and shuffles down the other side of the white-paved street, his
eyes fixed on the paving stones.  The creaking of a cart echoes from
somewhere up the alley Lorn passed, but he sees neither cart nor
whatever pulls it.

One block east, as the driver had said, is a small square.  In the
center is a statue, the figure purportedly of Keif'elth'alt, the first
Emperor of Light.  Lorn doubts that the original emperor had possessed
such heroic proportions.  On the south side of the square is an inn,
its side porch shaded by a green and white awning.  The scent of
roasted fowl drifts toward Lorn, and he stops, then shakes his head,
before turning northward.  He does take the shaded eastern side of the
street.

He passes a coppersmith's shop, then a cooper's, but both doors are
closed.  The door to the chandlery a block later is open.  Lorn pauses,
then steps inside.  After his eyes adjust to the dimness, he moves
toward the side counter, trying to keep both his kit and his scabbarded
sabre from banging into the table that holds various leather goods.  He
pauses to study the travel foods on the counter, looking over the
differing shapes, all covered in wax.

"Those not be what you'd be wanting, scr, I'd wager," offers a cheerful
voice.  A woman stands behind another counter, to Lorn's left.  She
points at a tray before her.  "Fresh honey-rolls... well... not that
fresh... baked late yesterday."  .

Lorn takes in her smiling face, and the short-cut but tight-curled
black hair and the clear but dark skin.  "They look better than the
travel fare."

"For eating now, they are."  With her words, surprisingly, comes the
hint of erhenflower scent, a fragrance Lorn would have thought too dear
for most in Syadtar.  "How much?"

"A copper each for the small ones.  Three coppers for two of the
large."  Three coppers find their way from Lorn's belt wallet to the
woman.  "Thank you."  He takes two of the larger honey rolls.  Before
he is fully aware of it, he is licking the crumbs of the second off his
fingers.  She extends a wooden cup of water.  "You'll need this."

"Thank you."  Lorn forces himself to drink the water more slowly than
he had gulped down the honey rolls.  "Thank you very much."

"You're most welcome.  If you would wait a moment..."  She slips away
from the counter, only to reappear with a bucket and a small towel.
"You could use this, scr."

"Ah... I wouldn't wish to impose."

"My brother was a lancer."  Her smile is strained.  "I'm sorry."

"That's all right."

Lorn takes the towel and bucket, and washes his face and hands.  He has
to admit that he feels less grimy, and probably looks bit more like an
officer.  "Thank you, lady."  He hands back the bucket and the towel.

"You know, I've seen a score of young officers walk by here in the last
year or so, and not a one has stopped.  Why did you... if I might ask?"
She drops her eyes.

"I was hungry."  Lorn grins.  "I don't think well when I'm hungry,
and... I stopped."  He pauses.  "I don't mean I stopped because I
wasn't thinking..."

The woman grins back.  "You sound like Cailynt."  Lorn shrugs
helplessly.

"I'm glad you stopped," she says, "but you'd best be on your way."
After the briefest of pauses, she adds, "Cailynt would have made a good
officer."

"He probably would have," Lorn agrees.

"Calenena?  We got a customer?  You be ringing me... you hear!"

Lorn puts another pair of coppers on the counter, and says in a low
voice, "Take care."  Then he grins warmly, and turns toward the door.

"I took care of it," Calenena answers.

Lorn steps back into the bright sunlight, blinking as his eyes
readjust.

Another block northward, he passes a potter's shop.  The smell of wood
burning tells him that a kiln is being fired.  His brows knit.  Places
like potters' and copper smiths shops aren't allowed in the main
section of Cyad, and some trades, like rendering and tanning, are not
allowed anywhere in the city.  Yet he sees the potter and has smelled
the tannery.  Is everything within the wall?  Are the barbarians that
much of a threat?  Or had they been at one time?

He keeps walking, realizing as he does that there are few trees in
Syadtar-no cylars or arymids, no straight or feathering conifers, just
a few scattered scrub cedars here and there.

The Mirror Lancer enclave is clear enough.  The street ends at another
white granite wall and an archway with the two lancer guards, each
under a projecting roof to shield them from the sun.  Lorn shows the
seal ring, and steps past them.  Once inside the archway and past the
open gates that are swung back inside the compound, Lorn glances
around, then heads for the largest building.

After walking the hundred cubits from the gates, he slips through the
open front archway into the coolness of a stone-walled corridor.

"Scr?"  A lancer ranker looks up from behind a table a mere ten cubits
inside the corridor His left sleeve holds two green slashes a span or
so above the cuff-showing he is a senior squad leader.

"Yes, squad leader?"

"If you're reporting for duty, scr, you need to go to the next
building."

"I'm going to Isahl, but I'm supposed to pick up a squad leader,
replacement lancers, and mounts."

"They'll help you there, scr.  This is Commander Thiataphi's
headquarters, scr.  The support centers for the outposts are in the
next building."

"Thank you."

Lorn turns and makes his way to the next building, considerably
smaller, with a plain weathered white oak door, standing ajar.  He
peers inside, at the two lancers who sit at opposite sides of a large
table on which are stacked scrolls of various sizes and sorts.  "need
three more for the replacement company..."  "good thing you got the
mounts..."

Lorn steps inside, and, at the slight whisper of his boots, the older
and bearded squad leader stands, followed by the younger.

"Scr?  Can we help you?"  The senior squad leader pauses, studying the
weary junior officer.  "Would you be the new undercaptain for Isahl?"

"That I am," Lorn admits.  "Undercaptain Lorn'alt."  He shows the seal
ring.  "I'm supposed to find a squad leader named Nytral.  I have his
orders."  Lorn extracts the somewhat battered smaller scroll from his
tunic.

"I'm Byrten, scr.  Senior lancer clerk for the outposts."  As the man
shifts his weight, Lorn can sense the stiffness and the pain in his
motions.

"It's good to meet you, Byrten."  Lorn shrugs.  "I'm supposed to report
here, but I wasn't given much in the way of details."

Byrten hides a smile.  "Chorin... go find Nytral.  Tell him his
undercaptain's here."

"Scr?  By your leave?"

Lorn nods and steps aside to let Chorin by him.

"Be the day after tomorrow afore all the supplies and replacement
lancers be ready, scr.  Till then, you'll have a room in the officers'
building-that's second back, and I'll show you after you're set with
Nytral.  Or he can show you."

"How many replacement lancers are there?"

"Two score," replies Byrten.

"And how often do they need replacements?"

"When Sub-Majer Brevyl needs them-sometimes once, sometimes twice a
season."  Byrten's smile is thin.

Two score lancers six times a year?  From one outpost on the edge of
the Grass Hills?  Lorn nods thoughtfully, deciding not to ask how many
under captains are needed as replacements.

"How long a ride is it to Isahl?"

"Three days, more or less."

"And what sort of supplies will we be taking?"

"You'll be escorting five wagons-four horse team on each."  Byrten
glances toward the door, where the rail-thin Chorin reappears, followed
by a ranker with a single green slash on his sleeve.  Both halt just
inside the door.  Nytral is short and stocky, and his right cheek bears
a faded purple starburst scar.  His thick black hair is cut short, and
his thick black eyebrows are bushy.  The deep brown of his eyes conveys
a flatness, as if Nytral has seen too much for his eyes to reveal.  The
flat eyes look at Lorn, eyes that are wary, waiting.

Lorn extends the set of smaller scrolls.  "Undercaptain Lorn'alt. These
are your orders."

"Yes, scr."  Nytral takes the scrolls, then looks at Lorn'alt.

The two other lancer rankers watch, eyes flicking from Nytral to
Lorn.

"You can unroll them," Lorn says.  "They're yours, but one copy has to
go to Commander Thiataphi's clerk."

"Ah..."  suggests Byrten.

"You take it first?"  asks Lorn.

"Works better that way, scr."  suggests Nytral.  "Byrten draws us
supplies, and he can't draw for more than we got on roster."

Lorn nods, wondering how much more he needs to learn, and whether he
can-in time.  "If there's nothing else Byrten needs to tell me... ?" He
looks at the senior clerk.

"Noser  Just check every morning.  Tomorrow we should have the
replacement roster done, and the supply list."

"I'd like Nytral to look at those with me," Lorn says.

"Yes, scr."

The undercaptain looks at his squad leader.  "Let's go on outside,
Nytral."

"Yes, scr."  Nytral's voice is deferential, but level.

After leaving the support building, Lorn crosses the small courtyard
until he stands in the shadowed corner on the southeast side.  Then he
turns to Nytral.  "I understand you'll be able to let me know what I
should know and don't on the way to Isahl."  Lorn offers a smile, one
simultaneously open and yet professional.

Nytral does not return the smile.  "Could be, scr."

Lorn laughs, gently.  "I know chaos, fire lances and blades.  I don't
know lancers and barbarians, and you do, or you wouldn't be a squad
leader assigned to a green officer.  I also don't know what supplies we
should have, and what we might get shorted.  You do."

Nytral's lips crinkle slightly.  "There be that, scr."

"More than that, I'm sure."  Lorn laughs self-deprecatingly.  "Do you
know where I draw a mount?  And how we can find out about just what our
replacement lancers are like?"

"Wouldn't be much good to you, if'n I didn't, scr."

"Let's start with finding my room so I can drop off this kit, and then
look for the kind of mount that will be best for Isahl."  Lorn smiles.
"Lead on."

Nytral gestures toward the three-story, narrow, barrack-like building
in the northeast corner of the compound.  "There."  He walks out of the
shade across the white paving stones of the courtyard.  "Front entrance
there is to the officer's rooms.  You can take whatever one you want on
the top level.  Stables are out back, beyond the wall...."

Lorn matches steps with the squad leader, listening, and yet studying
the compound, trying to memorize where everything is.

XX

After having selected a mount, and getting a tour of the rest of the
Mirror Lancer compound from Nytral, Lorn finds himself yawning more and
more as they walk back from the armory, a heavy-walled and squat
building located inside another set of walls in the northwest corner of
the compound.  Lorn's boots are scuffing the stone as well.

"Scr... begging your pardon, but best you get some sleep afore you eat
with the senior officers tonight."  Nytral glances at Lorn.

"Because they'll be sizing up the new undercaptain?  You're probably
right, and there's not too much more I can do until tomorrow anyway."
Lorn yawns again.  "I'll see you in the morning, and we can go over the
supplies and everything."

"Yes, scr."

Lorn turns and walks back to the quarters building, and up two long
flights of steps.  His room is stark-one narrow pallet bed, a small
table by the bed with an oil lamp, a single armless wooden chair, and a
set of wooden pegs on the wall for hanging uniforms.  The single window
bears ancient glass, and the shutters are inside the casement.

After slipping the latch bar in place behind him, Lorn levers off his
boots and strips to his small clothes.  By then he is struggling to
keep his eyes open.

Despite his fatigue, Lorn wakes in mid-afternoon, in a chill.  As he
was sleeping, someone had been screeing him, and it had not been his
father.  But why?  To see that he was indeed where he had been sent?

He rolls upright and rubs his eyes.  Since he is awake, he rises and
then uses the cold shower in the semi-communal bathing chamber in the
middle of the uppermost floor.  After drying and dressing in a clean
set of lancer whites, he heads back to the outpost support building
where some discreet inquiries of Chorin locate the officer's laundry
service, set, obviously, in the rear of the ground floor level of the
quarters building.

Lorn returns to his room and carries his soiled whites down to the
small room where a gray-haired and bare-footed woman in gray stands
over a wash tub, swirling the wash with a wooden paddle.  A second
thigh-high tub stands to her right.  The odors of warmish water and
soap fill the bare-walled space.

Lorn waits, but the woman does not turn in his direction.  Finally, he
clears his throat.

She looks up, then steps toward him.  "Scr... scr... those I cannot
wash until tomorrow."

"That's fine."

"A copper for each uniform, you know."

Lorn nods.  "There is just one."

She bobs her head and takes the uniform.  "Tomorrow night."

"Thank you."  Even before he finishes his words, the washerwoman has
set his whites on a table by the tub and is back at work with the
wooden paddle.  He steps outside, into a gentle, but unseasonably warm
breeze for winter in Syadtar-that is what he feels.  He checks the
white garrison cap, although the breeze is scarcely strong enough to
worry about.

There is time before dinner.  So he walks around the compound, studying
more carefully what Nytral had shown him earlier.  Under grayish-green
tiled roofs, the buildings are of clean-lined granite and sunstone, the
granite for the main walls, and the sunstone for the minimal trim and
arches.  Both types of stone have been bleached out by time and the
residual impact of the chaos-chisel cutting used to shape the stone
blocks.  With the late afternoon sun glinting on the windows of
Thiataphi's headquarters, Lorn can see that some of the window panes
are clearer than others, by the reflection of both light and the chaos
within the sunlight.  The window casements are all of stained and
weathered white oak, but barely visible, since all the shutters in the
compound are inside the windows.

The outpost building, although old, has been added to the compound
later.

Lorn smiles as Chorin hurries out the door and scurries toward
Thiataphi's headquarters.  "two, three..."

At the sound of cadence-calling, Lorn turns to watch a line of men in
white marching along the west wall of the compound, just outside the
shade.  "have to march before you ride... two, three... keep the chaos
on your side... two, three..."  calls a burly squad leader, breaking
the cadence to add, "You're not tough, and the barbarians will eat you
like honey cakes pick it up in the rear!"

Hoofs clatter on the stones, and a Mirror Lancer in white, wearing the
red sash of a messenger, rides up to the hitching post outside
Thiataphi's headquarters, dismounts, hurriedly ties his mount, and
rushes inside carrying a white leather dispatch pouch.

As Chorin eases out through the stone archway, the Lancer clerk's head
turns as if he is trying to hear what the messenger might be saying or
what he brought.

Lorn smiles, watching.

When Chorin sees Lorn, he begins to walk quickly back to the outpost
building, without looking back at the junior officer.

At the sound of the fifth bell of afternoon, Lorn turns back toward the
quarters building.  By the time he reaches the dining area, a small
hall with a table long enough for a score and a half, and folds his
garrison cap and tucks it in his belt, there are already a number of
officers gathering within the sunstone finished room.  The fireplace
behind the head of the table is dark, and the walls are bare, except
for a series of miniature mirror shields on the north wall, each with a
design color-etched into the polished cupridium.  The cupridium catches
the indirect early evening light coming through the windows on the
south wall, enough so that light plays across the shields.

From the rank insignia he can see, he is the only undercaptain, with
six captains, two over captains one sub-majer, and one majer standing
at places around the table, and with the gray-haired Commander
Thiataphi himself at the head of the table.

As the other officers seat themselves, Lorn watches, then moves so that
he is at the very foot of the table on the left side.

Each place has a brown platter and a heavy glass wine goblet-glass, not
crystal nor metal.  The servers are lancers, but each wears a green
over tunic  On the serving platter first presented to the commander are
slices of beef, covered with a brown sauce.  The second platter is
heaped with yellow noodles, and four large baskets of dark bread are
set at intervals along the table.  Then comes a deeper dish filled with
something green.

Lorn waits and takes as much as he dares of the beef, noodles, bread,
and ackar, a bitter leafy vegetable he had seen far too much of as a
boy.  The server fills his goblet with a maroon wine.

Commander Thiataphi lifts his goblet, and the other officers begin to
eat.  Lorn follows their example, listening to their conversation as he
does.

"White mounts handle the sun better... chaos-colored, you know, and the
white reflects better...."  "darker coats shield them better..." "so
why do the chestnuts breathe harder and lather earlier?"  "got you
there, Helkar..."  "doesn't matter now... not in winter..."

Lorn takes a bite of the overcooked beef, following it with a mouthful
of equally overcooked noodles.  The wine, while a plain red, is far
better than either the beef or the noodles, but Lorn eats everything on
the chipped brown platter before him, then waits for the senior
officers to finish and take any second helpings.  "scouts say the
Jeranyi are gathering the eastern tribes, the ones north of the cupric
mines."

"Some of them have started carrying polished iron shields-work almost
as well as a mirror shield against the fire lances... with those
iron-headed arrows..."

"Their bows aren't that good, not from the saddle."

"Yet..."

"Ought to go in and take the iron mines..."

"You want to get ferric poisoning... be my guest, Helkar.  Besides,
none of the barbarians work metal that well."

"You don't get it from the ore... only after it's smelted and turned
into weapons... Rather take out the mines than risk getting ferric
poisoning and order death."

Lorn keeps a polite smile on his face when he isn't earing, taking in
the attitudes of the lancers, partly amazed at some of the
misconceptions that seem common, even among officers.

The serving dishes, after being refilled by the lancer servers, make
their way down to Lorn, who takes additional slices of beef and a pile
of the gravied noodles.  He has eaten two mouthfuls of his seconds,
then stops to break off a chunk of the moist brown bread.

"Undercaptain?  Lorn'alt, is it not?"  calls Commander Thiataphi.

Lorn swallows quickly.  "Yes, scr."

"You're from Cyad, are you not?"

"Yes, scr."

"How do you find the north?"  asks the commander.

"Warmer than I would have thought in winter, scr."  Lorn offers a
polite smile.

"That's why the barbarians want our lands.  One reason, anyway.  On the
other side of the Grass Hills, there's snow.  Or there was last eight
day according to the report from Sub-Majer Brevyl.  Don't forget to
draw a winter jacket, and winter boots."

"Noser  I won't."  Lorn hasn't thought about either, and hopes his face
does not show his ignorance.

"You from a lancer family?"

"Noser"  Lorn decides against volunteering his background.

"That's right," Thiataphi says with a guffaw.  "You're one of the
magus-born who's good with a blade."  He shakes his head.  "Do some of
the Magi'i good to get out on the borderlands, see what the barbarians
are doing."

Not knowing how to respond to that, Lorn nods politely.

"You'll see.  Sub-Majer Brevyl will ensure you do.  Just like he did
with all the others here.  Except me, and I made sure he saw just what
they were."  The darkness in the commander's words is scarcely
concealed.

Lorn manages to finish the second helping on his chipped platter just
before the servers clear the platters, and replace them with smaller
plates, each bearing a rolled and fried paelunka that has been dipped
in condensed sweet sap He continues to listen as the conversation
drifts away from him.  "all that snow to the north... grass'll be green
early, and that means more raids."

"If it ever melts..."  "doesn't melt early, stay green longer, and the
raids'll start later and last longer, either way, we need to draw more
trainees."  "could be right about that... need more under captains
too..."

Lorn finishes his paelunka and sips the wine, very slowly, listening.

Abruptly, Thiataphi rises, and so do the other officers.  Even though
caught unaware, Lorn rises with them.

One of the captains draws up to Lorn as they leave the officer's dining
hall.

"I'm Helkar, the one they're always telling that I'm wrong."

"Lorn."

"I noticed you didn't say much about ferric poisoning, but you have to
know something about it, don't you, if you were a magus."

"I know something about it," Lorn admits.

"Was I right about it?  That it's got to be used in a weapon?

"Mostly."  Lorn pauses.  "And you have to have been using fire lances
and directing them for a long time.  Otherwise, you'll probably only
get a burn in addition to a slash or a cut."

"Why do the Magi'i warn us so much?  Burns, those I can handle."

"The Magi'i handle more chaos than fire lances much more."

"Ah..."  Helkar frowns.  "You'll have to worry more about iron then?"

"I shouldn't."

"Good."  Helkar laughs.  "You'll have enough to worry about with Brevyl
anyway."

"Is he that hard?"

"Is cupridium tough?  Does a fire lance burn?"  The captain shakes his
head.  "He's fair, but best you do as he orders, or you'll find
yourself leading a half-score of troublemakers who don't know one end
of a lance from the other against four score raiders."  Helkar laughs. 
"And if you make it through that, he'll decide you're the one to train
and lash all the troublemakers in the whole outfit into formation."

Lorn nods, stifling a yawn.  He is still tired from three days' travel
in fire wagons and wonders if one good night's sleep will be enough to
recover.  "Is this your duty assignment now?"

"Me?  Working for Commander Thiataphi?  Not likely.  I'm here like you,
picking up replacement lancers, except I'm headed back to Pemedra
tomorrow.  A few less barbarians there, and a lot more snow.  You can
see the Westhorns from there, and that wind comes off them in winter,
and it'll cut right through you."

"How many lancers are you taking back?"

"Four score, with two squad leaders."  Helkar shrugs.  "Takes near-on
four days, and there's always a chance of a raiding party, but it's
less early in the winter.  The barbarians get bored or run out of food
before spring, and they'll start raiding while there's still snow
everywhere."  Another laugh follows.  "Trailing them through snow and
mud, we all enjoy that."

Lorn nods.

"You look order-dead."  Helkar half-thumps Lorn's shoulders and turns.
"Good luck with Sub-Majer Brevyl."

"Thank you."  Lorn walks slowly up the two flights of stone steps,
concentrating so that his white boots do not scuff and so that he does
not trip.  A night's sleep will be good.  Very good.

XXI

Lorn bends forward in the saddle and pats the shoulder of the big white
mare, then straightens and looks ahead along the road that curves its
way between yet another set of hills.  The grass that covers the hills
is brown, but it does seem endless, with each hill that the detachment
rides over giving way to yet another, and then another.  After the
first morning, for two days all Lorn and the lancers have seen are
grass hills.  Part of that sense of endlessness is because they are not
crossing the hills directly, but angling northwest from Syadtar.

Every so often there are small copses of bushes or low trees bearing
their gray winter leaves, generally along streams so small as to be
almost invisible from more than a hundred cubits away.  The wind is
cold, but not bitter, and blows out of the northwest, almost into
Lorn's face, carrying a clear odor of wet grass and the hint of mold.

At the top of the hill on the north side of the road are two lancers
Nytral has sent out as scouts.  One remains reined up, watching the
column of riders, while the second vanishes beyond the hill crest,
shadowing and following the road from the heights as it winds generally
northwest.

Lorn glances over his shoulder at the forty-odd new lancers riding
behind them.  Most appear painfully young, even to Lorn, and some
struggle managing the fire lances in the holders, even though the
lances are little more than three cubits long.  Lorn scarcely notices
his any more.

"You ride pretty well, scr.  You come from a lancer family?"  asks
Nytral.

Lorn turn in the saddle and looks at his squad leader.  "I had to learn
it on my own, Nytral.  Spent a lot of extra time in officer training
working with mounts.  Seemed a good idea."

Nytral frowns.

"I came from a Magi'i family.  I didn't take to being kept in a granite
tower playing with chaos.  The Magi'i didn't want me dabbling in trade.
So it was strongly suggested that I become a lancer."

"Ah... being a magus family, scr... ?"

"When the head of the Magi'i, who sits at the right hand of the
Emperor, suggests that a young man become a lancer officer, it's
generally a good idea to agree.  Besides, it got me out of the towers,"
Lorn points out.

Nytral glances at Lorn.  "That be making more sense, scr."

"Because Isahl is one of the places that the barbarians always raid,
and we lose a lot of lancers and officers here?"

"They tell you that, scr?"

"No."  Lorn laughs cheerfully.  "They sent me here."

Nytral shivers and looks away.

Lorn shrugs.  Best that Nytral knows Lorn's background early on, and
understands that Lorn doesn't intend for it to bother him, or adversely
affect him.  He turns and studies the riders behind him again.  Then he
turns his mount and rides back along the column, looking at each lancer
as he passes.

Only a handful meet his amber eyes.

Near the end of the column, where the wagons rumble along, he turns the
mare again, and lets her keep pace so that he rides beside the lead
teamster.

"How are the wagons going?"  he calls.

"Be fine, scr," answers the gray-bearded lancer with the crossed green
sheaves on his sleeves, his right hand on the leather leads for the
four-horse team.  "A mite heavier than I'd like, but the roads stay
dry, for another day, and all be well."

Lorn nods, raises his hand, and urges the mare back toward the front of
the column, riding almost on the shoulder of the road and letting her
move just slightly faster than the lancers, so that he can study each
as he rides past, without seeming to do so.

When he reaches the front of the column, the road has begun to curve
between yet another set of hills, and Lorn can see that it slopes
gently upward at an angle along a ridge that extends a kay or more both
east and west.

"Have to climb this one, scr."

Lorn nods as he eases the mare closer to the squad leader's mount.

"Sent out another pair of scouts," Nytral says quietly.  "Been a few
attacks here, 'cause you can't see the road."

Lorn follows Nytral's gesture.  A pair of scouts has reined up at the
ridge crest, where they pause before one turns his mount and rides down
the road at a quick trot.

"Trouble..."  mumbles Nytral.  "Knew it!"

The scout has barely reined up before the words of his report tumble
out.  "Barbarians, scr.  On the rise a kay northeast of the top
there."

Lorn glances past the scout at the half-kay of road that remains before
the first of the column reaches the crest.  "How fast are they
moving?"

"They're not riding, scr.  They're waiting."

"A kay away and they'd have to ride down and then up?"  asks Nytral.

"Yes, scr."

"We'd be better to get to the top," suggests the squad leader.

"Order it," Lorn says.

"Quick trot!  Quick trot!"

Lorn keeps the mare abreast of Nytral, letting the squad leader set the
pace as the column hurries toward the ridge top, raising heavy dust
that the teamsters and the trailing riders will have to breathe.  After
reining in the mare at the crest of the hill, beside Nytral and the two
scouts, Lorn looks out, squinting against the sun that barely warms the
mid-afternoon.

"Barbarians..."  Nytral says.  "Don't look like raiders, but you can't
ever tell, crazy as they are."

The score of mounted figures on the opposite hilltop are less than a
kay away.  The riders are bearded, with large blades in shoulder
harnesses.  Several have shields fastened somehow to their saddle in
front of their left knees, and some have shields strapped over the bags
behind their saddles.

"They won't attack... not now," Lorn observes.

Nytral raised his eyebrows.  "With them... you never know."

"Do they use those shields?"

"Yes, scr."  Nytral looks toward the barbarians.  "They could have
those out in a moment."

"Let's just wait and see if they do."

Nytral turns his mount.  "Form up-eight abreast.  Lances ready!  Four
abreast.  Lances ready!"

Lorn watches the barbarians as Nytral chevies the raw lancers into
formation.  Abruptly, the barbarians turn their mounts and begin to
ride back northward along the ridge line.

"They won't do that in the spring," Nytral prophesies as he turns his
mount and eased up beside Lorn.  "And they'll have more."

Lorn has few doubts about that.

"We should wait, scr.  Make sure they're well along."

"Good idea.  That will let the wagons catch up, too."

"Wagons... wish the fire wagons and the paved roads came out this far,"
murmurs the squad leader.  "We'd get more supplies faster."

Lorn laughs.  "No, we wouldn't.  They'd just move us farther north,
then."

"Probably right about that."  Nytral shakes his head, his eyes still on
the riders headed northward.

After a moment, Lorn says, "Oh... Nytral.  There's a lancer back there,
about the third back on the left.  Tall fellow, but he's swaying in the
saddle.  Might be sick... or something worse."

Nytral looks at Lorn.  "That be Beryt.  Used to be a squad leader.  He
likes the malt too much, scr."

"But he fights well out where there isn't any ale or brew?"

Nytral smiles.  "Yes, scr.  One of the best."

Lorn nods, then readjusts the white garrison cap, still watching the
barbarians as they dwindle from sight.

XXII

The road climbs over a low rise between two hills, running westward.
From the saddle of the white mare, Lorn can see a long and shallow
valley ahead, one with more than a handful of Cyadoran-style brick
dwellings dotting the eastern end of the valley, all with thin plumes
of smoke rising through the cold air toward the cloudless green-blue
sky overhead.  The only trees are the infrequent and scraggly scrub
cedars.

"There you are, scr," said Nytral.  "Isahl's at the far west end.  Be a
bit afore we can see the outpost."

"We haven't seen that many farms until now," Lorn says, hoping Nytral
will offer more information or opinion.

"Ha!  Wouldn't see any here, except that they're all welcome in the
walls if the raiders did come.  They won't though.  Not while Sub-Majer
Brevyl's here."

"How many lancers are assigned here?"

"Don't tell me that, scr, not in figures, but we got five companies,
and that's ten squads.  When we're all lined up in formation-happens
once in a while-I counted near-on ten score and that didn't take in the
cooks and such."

"That should allow plenty of patrols."

"Not that many.  Figure you need a company for a recon patrol; and a
company to deal with a small raider band, and near-on everyone if all
the barbarians in a tribe join a raid."

"Does that happen often?"  Lorn leans forward and pats the mare on the
neck.

"A full-tribe raid?  Nah... not more than once every few years, if
that.  Once three summers afore last, but it was dry in the north.
Figure they were hungry... or something."

"The raids, have they been happening for years?  Or just in recent
times?"

"Long time.  Once heard Commander Thiataphi say he'd been an
undercaptain out here.  You tell me how many years that is, scr."
Nytral laughs.

"More than a few."  About fifty cubits back from the road, on both
sides, Lorn notes the even irrigation ditches, brick-lined, and the
miniature dams and sluice gates designed to channel the water to the
fields, though the ditches are empty under the winter sun.  "The
barbarians try to tear the irrigation systems?"

"No.  Mostly, they're after women and weapons, and horses-and whatever
lancers they can kill while they're at it."  Nytral lapses into
silence.

Lorn looks northward as they pass a homestead, one with a house that
could have been dropped into the outskirts of Cyad or Syadtar, with its
green ceramic privacy screen before the front door, privacy hedges in
the rear of the dwelling, and green shutters.  The two outbuildings are
of brick, but larger than those Lorn has seen elsewhere in Cyador.  The
one barn is nearly a hundred cubits long and twenty high-at the top of
its tiled roof.

Even after riding two kays into the valley, Lorn has to squint against
the glare of the late afternoon sun for a time before he can make out
the general outline of the outpost, far larger in the ground it covers
than the compound in Syadtar or the officers' training base in
Kynstaar.

After another kay or so, Nytral offers, "There, scr, you can see it
better."

The outpost has been built around a hillock at the west end of the long
and shallow valley.  The outer sunstone walls are a good eight cubits
high and enclose corrals, barns, and an inner wall that holds an
armory, and several long barracks-all built of stone and roofed in
tile.  On the lower part of the hillside, Lorn can see both a raised
water cistern and what appears to be a spring with protective walls
running from the spring to the armory.

"Have the barbarians ever breached the walls?"  asks the
undercaptain.

"Stories are that they killed most of the first garrison, generations
back.  Emperor said it wouldn't happen again... so they built Isahl to
stop any attack.  Patterned after Assyadt, except the west Jeranyi
haven't caused as much trouble in a few years.  Anyway... no attacks...
leastwise, haven't happened since."

Lorn nods.

A kay from the outpost, they turn northward onto a short road leading
to the gates in the approximate center of the southernmost east-west
wall.  There are four guards stationed at the closed gates at the end
of the road.  Two stand outside the closed gates and two above them on
the low parapets.  All four watch as the Lorn and the replacement
lancers approach.

Nytral glances at Lorn.

Lorn rides toward the gate alone, offers the seal ring for inspection
to the square-faced and older guard who steps forward.  "Undercaptain
Lorn'alt... reporting to Sub-Majer Brevyl with supplies and replacement
lancers."

"Good to see you, scr."  The sentry steps back, and the gates swing
open.

Once inside the extensive outer walls, which could only stop a small
raiding party or discourage a larger band of barbarians, Lorn can see
more clearly the second inner wall that surrounds the main compound,
set at the base of the low hill perhaps a third of a kay northward.

The inner gates, while guarded by a half score of lancers, are open.
One steps forward.

"Scr?"

"Yes?"  answers Lorn politely.

"Being as you're new, the sub-majer'd be seeing you afore you go to
quarters."  The young orderly's voice is firm, if high.

"Where do I go?"  asks Lorn politely.

"The corner tower in the right... where there's a guard at the door.
There's a hitching post there."

"Thank you."  Lorn nods his head, then urges the mare forward.

A lancer with the double slashes of a senior squad leader on his
sleeves appears from the barracks building closest to the gate, his
eyes lighting on Nytral.  "Nytral's back!  Even brought some wagons."

Lorn glances at Nytral.  "You can settle things while I report to the
sub-majer?"

"Yes, scr.  They'll be fine."

"Thank you."

"My job, scr."

Lorn guides the mare to the right, toward the tower that indeed has a
single guard standing by the square-arched doorway.  There, he
dismounts and ties the mare to the unused hitching post, then steps
forward toward the lancer.

"Through the door, scr.  Kielt will see to you, scr."

"Thank you."  Lorn steps out of the mild but chilly wind and into the
narrow corridor.  A dozen cubits down the corridor yet another lancer
sits at a small table beside a closed door.

Lorn steps forward and offers the seal ring to the lancer.
"Undercaptain Lorn'alt reporting for duty."  The formality of the words
sounds almost pompous to Lorn, but he waits.

"One moment, scr."  The bearded older lancer slips through the door and
closes it.

He returns almost immediately.  "Sub-Majer Brevyl will see you now,
scr."  The lancer holds the ancient but spotless white oak door for
Lorn to enter the sub-majer's study.

"Thank you, Kielt."  Lorn ignores the slight flicker of the lancer's
eyes and steps through the door.

The study is not large for an officer who commands an outpost as large
as Isahl, for the room is less than fifteen cubits by ten, and contains
but a table-desk, a single scroll case, the wooden armchair from which
Brevyl rises, and four armless straight-backed wooden chairs that face
the desk.  There are two other chairs in the corners.  High windows on
the wall behind the desk offer the sole source of outside light,
although two wall sconces contain unlit oil lamps.

Sub-Majer Brevyl is a short and slender man, half a head shorter than
Lorn, with a thin white brush mustache.  His short-cut white hair is
thick, and his green eyes dominate fine features and an even nose.

"Scr, Undercaptain Lorn'alt."  Lorn offers the order scroll to the
sub-majer.

Brevyl lays the scroll on the corner of the desk, unopened.  "Please
sit down, Undercaptain.  It is a long ride from Syadtar."  He pauses,
then asks, as Lorn seats himself.  "Did you see any barbarians along
the road?"

"One group, scr.  They were about a kay away, and they turned north
when they saw us."

"Too bad they didn't get closer."  A wry smile crosses the sub-majer's
face as he picks up the scroll, unrolls it, and sits down to read
through it.  After a moment, he looks at Lorn, all traces of a smile
vanishing from his face.  "Do you know why you're here, Undercaptain
Lorn'alt?"

"Because there's nowhere else I can be," Lorn says evenly.  "Except
perhaps Pemedra or the Accursed Forest."

"Or Inividra in the spring or fall," adds the sub-majer.  "And you'll
see all four before you make majer.  Without returning to Cyad except
on leave between assignments."  He pauses.  "Doesn't seem exactly fair,
does it?"

Lorn waits, attentively.

"I'd like an answer, Undercaptain."

"What's considered 'fair' has to defer to what is necessary for the
well-being of Cyad, serA frown replaces the bluff humoring look on the
sub-majer's face.  "I didn't ask for a student answer, Undercaptain."

"Absolute loyalty is required of both lancers and the Magi'i, serA ny
lancer seeking to become a magus or any student magus seeking to become
a lancer comes from outside and has to demonstrate both ability and
absolute loyalty."

"You're testing my patience."

Lorn represses a sigh.  "Scr, it's not fair.  It can't be fair, and you
know that, and I know that.  Scr... what do you want from me?"

Brevyl smiles, crookedly.  "Just that.  The reasons don't matter.  The
politics don't matter.  Your background and obvious education don't
matter.  All that matters is that you know that you'll get the nastiest
assignments you can handle.  They won't be more than you can handle
because that wastes lancers and endangers other officers.  Are you up
to that, Undercaptain?"

"I don't know, scr.  I think I am, but what I do is what counts."

"You're honest, Undercaptain Lorn.  Let's hope you're as good as you
think you are.  You'll ride patrols for the first four eight days with
Zandrey.  You'll be the second-in-command, and that means you do
exactly what he says-unless the barbarians get him.  You'd better make
sure they don't, because you don't know dung about the way they
operate."

"Yes, scr."

"You listen and you ask questions, quietly and when there aren't any
rankers around.  You carry out Zandrey's orders and learn all you can.
It won't be as much as you should know, but it might be enough if you
work hard and learn fast.  Do you understand?"

"Yes, scr."

"No..."  Brevyl shakes his head.  "All under captains just think they
understand.  On your way out, tell Kielt to set you up on the officers'
level of the barracks, and then go find Zandrey.  He's not on patrol
today.  He'll be here somewhere."

"Yes, scr."

"Formality is fine, Undercaptain.  Ability and luck count more."

Lorn waits, deciding against another polite response.

"At least you listen."  Brevyl snorts.  "Go get yourself settled.
Zandrey's next patrol is the day after tomorrow."

"Yes, scr.  By your leave, scr."

Brevyl gives a dismissive nod, and Lorn stands, offers a slight bow,
and turns.  He closes the door behind him.

Outside, Kielt waits, standing beside his table.

"The sub-majer said that I was to ask you about being set up on the
officers' level of the barracks."

"Very good, scr."  Kielt rings the hand bell on the table, turning as
another lancer appears.  "If you would take over, Rueggr?"

Rueggr nods once.

Lorn follows Kielt out of the brick-walled tower.  Now that the sun has
dropped behind the hills, the wind sweeping out of the north is chill,
and he is glad of the winter jacket.

XXIII

The officers' study at Isahl contains several flat tables that can
serve as desks, as well as a good half score of battered armless oak
chairs.  The polished stone floors are largely covered with worn green
wool rugs that take the chill from the stone and muffle the sound of
boots.  The south windows are high, but large, and on a long table
against the smooth stones of the north wall are eight large
strongboxes, each with a cupridium lock.  Each has a bronze plate on it
with the name of a company.  Lorn's company is Fifth Company, and the
bronze key to his lock is fastened inside his green web officer's
belt.

He sits on the opposite side of a table from Captain Zandrey.  Zandrey
is black-haired, brown-eyed and stocky.  Like most lancer officers, he
is clean-shaven, but in the afternoon light, his dark beard is
beginning to show.  "Sub-Majer Brevyl has decided that Nytral will be
your company squad leader.  Each squad is a score, and there's a squad
leader for each."

Lorn nods, wondering if it had taken a promotion for Nytral to agree to
serve under Lorn.  He almost shook his head.  Nytral could have been
ordered to serve.  Was the promotion to encourage Nytral?

"You look skeptical, Lorn."

"Noser  I just wondered about Nytral's promotion."  Lorn tries to make
his voice as guileless as possible.

"He was overdue, actually."  Zandrey snort.  "Rumor has it that he
asked to serve under you, and Brevyl was so surprised that the man
volunteered for anything that he promoted him on the spot."

"He seems to know a lot," Lorn ventures.

"He does, more than most of the senior squad leaders, but he says what
he believes, and some officers and other squad leaders are less than
pleased with his attitude."

"Right now, that's fine with me."  Lorn nods.  "What about the patrol
tomorrow?  What exactly do we do?"

"Patrol."  The captain laughs.  "We'll ride northward, looking for
barbarians or signs that they've been around.  We might see some, and
we might not, but they'll know we've been looking.  The one thing that
is certain is that when we don't patrol, there are more raids."

"Nytral said that the barbarians were mostly after women, weapons, and
mounts."

"He's mostly right, but they'll sometimes take children, and sometimes
silvers and golds, if a homesteader has any."

Lorn frowns.

"You wonder why anyone lives out here?  Simple.  They don't have any
choice.  Thieves, swindlers, and people who've failed the Empire-if
they haven't killed anyone, they can choose to homestead beyond the
great highways for a score of years.  Some like it and stay.  Others
leave, but sometimes they work a deal with someone in Syadtar-turn it
over to a younger son or a troublemaker who's headed for worse. 
Anyway, we're here to protect them as well as the towns and cities
farther south. Strange, when you think about it... protecting folks
who've forfeited the Emperor's justice."  Zandrey shrugs.  "Can't
question too much here, or you'll end up questioning your own mind."

"Is there anything about the barbarian tactics?"

"Tactics?  Most wouldn't know a tactic if it walked up with a cup
rid-ium blade and cut them out of the saddle."

"That would seem to make them unpredictable."

"I wouldn't say that," replies the captain.  "They're direct-like a big
iron hammer.  And there is one thing you can count on with the
barbarians.  They don't believe in doing anything that's not
honorable."  Zandrey's word were dry.  "In two years here, I've never
seen an ambush.  They don't attack at night, or in the rain or snow.
They ride at you, but they don't cluster, and they don't try to pick
off officers.  They also don't back off attacking officers.  Any
Cyadoran is like any other, and they hate us all."

Lorn wonders why.  From what he knows of history, the hatred makes no
sense, and that means he doesn't know enough of history or that the
barbarians are irrational.  Somehow, he thinks that the history is more
suspect than the barbarians' rationality.

Zandrey stands and stretches.  "Go over your squad rosters until you
know the names.  Last thing you need to be doing on patrol is trying to
remember names.  It's hard enough to match names to faces at first."

Lorn stands and replies.  "Yes, scr."

"And you'll need to check the fire lances in the morning, each one as
it's issued."

Lorn nods.

"See you at dinner."

Lorn waits until Zandrey turns before letting an ironic smile cross his
face.  Are all the outcasts on the northern border?  He shakes his head
before turning to head toward the stable to check on both his mare and
his company's mounts.

XXIV

Under thick gray clouds, the mist seems to billow out of the north and
across the brown grass of the endless hills.  Although it is near
mid-day, the clouds and mist give the impression of twilight.  The mist
droplets congeal on the back of Lorn's neck and then roll in tiny
rivulets down his back under the white oiled leather of his winter
jacket.

Lorn shifts from one leg to the other, putting his weight on one
stirrup, then the other.  He half-stands in the stirrups, just trying
to stretch his legs.

They are less than twenty kays north of Isahl, and in another world.
The patrol travels a narrow clay path on the north side of a valley
that holds little besides a small brackish lake they had passed
earlier, and a handful of scattered earth-brick dwellings and barns.
The dwellings are scarcely that, without privacy screens or glass in
the windows.  Rough cut and oiled shutters, often pieced together from
old boards, are swung closed against the damp and chill.  The thin
lines of smoke from the chimneys are lost in the gray of the clouds and
mist.

The only living creatures visible besides the lancers and their mounts
are the sheep of a single small herd-grayish lumps against the brown
grass-beyond the last barn on the south side of the road.

So far, the only tracks in the road are those of the patrol and of a
single cart that has left span-deep ruts in the clay-like mud that has
almost frozen.

Lorn glances a half-kay or so ahead, where Zandrey leads the Third
Company, then back along his company's two squads.  For the moment,
Nytral rides with Shofirg-the Second squad's leader.  Beside Lorn is
another older lancer, Dubrez, whose bearded face holds a dourness that
has been unchanged since the patrol began the day before.

The road slowly curves northward at the west end of the valley, rising
to pass between two slightly lower hills, where they are a handful of
scrub cedars, a few bushes and mostly taller grass.

"This place have a name?"  Lorn finally asks Dubrez.

"This valley?  Not that I know, scr.  Most don't, not proper-like. This
one's the valley with the sour lake.  Next is the one with the
burned-out house.  That sort of thing..."  Dubrez lapses into
silence.

Lorn shifts the reins from his right hand to his left, flexing his
fingers, trying to warm them inside thick white gloves that keep out
the worst of the chill-but not all of it.

Cold and fat droplets of rain splat against lancers and their mounts,
just enough to cover both with a thin sheet of water, before the cold
rain ceases, and is in turn replaced by the finer droplets of the
seemingly endless mist.

"How often are we likely to run across barbarians?"  Lorn asks the
squad leader quietly.

"Don't, scr.  Not in winter."  Durbrez to the hills to their right. "Up
there, probably a few now.  Or could be.  We don't patrol, and in an
eight-day, there'll be raiders in most of these valleys. Wintertime...
they don't want to fight, and it be too cold for them to stay out too
long and guess where we'll be.  We patrol... they watch some.  We don't
patrol-they raid.  Dung-eaters... every last one of 'em."  The squad
leader grunts and is silent.

Lorn studies the column ahead, and the faint puffs of white coming from
the lancers' mounts, wondering if any raids take place during the
winter, or if the patrols are just to keep the lancers in shape.

"Be some raids," Dubrez adds, as if he has thought about his earlier
words.  "Some raiders desperate... maybe two or three every winter...
not like the spring and summer and fall, though."

Three or four raids-and those are considered as insignificant?  Lorn
looks northward at the darkening clouds.

XXV

As he half-listens to Nytral, on yet another patrol, Lorn studies the
road and the west end of the valley they are about to leave.  The road
curves northward, again rising into the lowest point between two hills.
Directly to Lorn's right, there is a sheep path or trail that angles
eastward through two switchbacks and over the hill, probably into the
next valley in what seems an endless series of hills and interlocked
valleys.  The cold wind is scarcely more than a breeze, but it still
chills Lorn's ears, despite the winter garrison cap with the ear-flaps.
"just can't ever tell, scr... might be a raid now... might not be one
for eight days declares Nytral, as he rides beside Lorn in the chill,
gray, and sunless afternoon.  With the last of his words, the senior
squad leader offers a shrug.

Lorn nods faintly at the phrases he has heard more than a few times
over the past three eight days then glances northward at the sound of
hoofs thudding on the frozen clay of the road.  A lancer gallops
southeast from the Third Company toward Lorn and Nytral, steam puffing
from his mount's nostrils.

"Never can tell, scr, but that'd be looking like a raid the scouts
found."

Not about to second-guess his senior squad leader, Lorn just keeps
riding until the lancer reins up.

"Scr... there's raiders over the hill, spoiling a herder's place.
Captain Zandrey's orders be for your company to ride the path there,
along the ridge, and then start down toward the herder's place.  Says
you be making noise so as to spook 'em out along the road, and that's
where he'll be."

"Tell Captain Zandrey that we'll be following his orders."

"Yes, scr."  The lancer offers a head bow, then turns his mount.

Lorn glances at Nytral, who smiles crookedly.

"Fifth Company!  We're taking that sheep trail-two abreast!"  Lorn
orders.

"Yes, scr!"  answers Dubrez, the squad leader riding directly behind
Lorn.

"I'll ride back and tell Shofirg, scr," offers Nytral.

Lorn nods as he guides his mount northward across the brown grass
toward the trail that begins perhaps a half-kay northward of the road.
The frozen brown grass crackles under the mare's hoofs, and a few
murmurs drift to Lorn on the light cold wind.  "they get the road... we
climb goat paths..."  "leastwise... undercaptain's up front..."
"supposed to be there..."

The trail is steeper and narrower than it had appeared from the road,
so that the lancers ride single file.  The sound of hoofs scrabbling on
the frozen clay mixes with the mumbles of lancers, pitched low enough
that Lorn can no longer distinguish anything but the general tone of
dissatisfaction.  He glances back, but the Third Company has vanished
into the pass between the two hills.

The wind is stronger nearer the crest of the hill, and when Lorn
finally reaches the top and is about to look down on the next valley,
the chill gusts almost take his breath away.  Below them the sheep path
meanders downhill through a series of switchbacks to a small valley, an
oval no more than two kays across at the widest point and less than
four kays along its east-west length.  A single clump of buildings set
beside a long pond are the only sign of settlement-except for the dozen
or so horsemen reined up outside the largest building, while other
figures scurry around a long and narrow sod barn.

Lorn urges the mare into a slightly faster walk, the best he dares on
the steep and hard ground of the path.  His eyes flick from the path to
the holding, and then to the line of lancers that follows him down the
slope.

Nytral and Lorn have reached the second switchback on the way down the
northern side of the hill when screams reach them-carried on the light
wind.  Lorn looks westward toward where the road enters the valley, but
the undercaptain cannot see Zandrey's company, and he wonders where the
Third Company might be, since taking the road surely had to have been
quicker than crossing a frozen field and then climbing and descending
the hill.

One of the raiders gestures, as if to note Lorn's company of lancers,
but none of the raiders seem to stop their depredations-and another
scream wavers through the chill air.

"Bastards, they are.  Every last one of 'em," mumbles Nytral.

"They know we can't reach them quickly."  Lorn still looks for Zandrey,
but cannot see the Third Company anywhere.  Is there a bridge down...
or another group of raiders?  Or is Zandrey going to let Lorn make the
first attack?

As the last of the Fifth Company descends the path, finally lining up
in formation, and begins its advance, the barbarians suddenly mount and
begin to ride westward-away from Lorn.

"They're running!"  comes a yell from behind Lorn.

"For now," counters Nytral.  "Hold formation!"

"Hold formation!"  Lorn orders as well.

As the Fifth Company reaches a flatter area of brown grass perhaps five
hundred cubits south of the midpoint of the long pond, a series of
flashes appears to the west-flashes of fire lances

Lorn conceals a frown.  Has Zandrey been waiting beyond the low rise
all along-letting the holders be killed and tortured-until Lorn charged
the raiders into ambush?

"Third Company's got 'em!"

"Hold formation!"  Nytral orders again.

As his Mirror Lancers near the holding itself, Lorn studies the ground,
noting the closeness of the earthen dike that holds back the waters of
the shallow pond, and the narrow space between the northern end of the
pond, and the steeper hills that define the northern side of the
valley.

The fire lances of the Third Company flash again, and amid the flashes
come the screams-of mounts-not of men.

Close to half a score of the raiders wheel their mounts and turn away
from Zandrey's fire lances heading toward the northeast, as if to
circle the frozen and narrow pond that extends almost a half-kay to the
north, even though it was created by an earthen dike no more than four
cubits high.

Lorn glances at the raiders' course, and then at the pond, and the
orders seem obvious, so obvious that his words seem ponderous and slow.
"Dubrez!  Take your squad around that pond!  On the far side!"

"Yes, scr!"  Dubrez offers Lorn the first smile the undercaptain has
seen from the dour veteran.

"We'll take this side in case they turn," Lorn tells Nytral.

"Best send a half-score along the edge of the pond on this side,"
suggests Nytral.

"It's that shallow?"

"Yes, scr."

"Do it!"

"Shofirg!"  bellows Nytral.  "Take a half-score on this side of the
pond, up toward the north end."

"Yes, scr!"

"We'll take the rest down this side."

Lorn, Nytral, and the remaining half-score of Shofirg's squad
quick-trot southward along the southern and western edge of the long
pond.  They near the holding buildings and ride toward the melee that
now seems to involve all of Zandrey's company and all the raiders
except the handful that had already fled.

Suddenly, two more riders in leathers turn their mounts from the melee
and begin to gallop toward the pond, heading eastward and almost
directly in front of Lorn and the half squad that rides behind him.  As
the pair sees the small squad, they veer more toward Lorn's right,
trying to ride between the lancers and the frozen pond.

Lorn turns the mare nearly due north and urges her into a gallop, half
aware that Nytral and the other ten riders have fallen back
momentarily.

As they race eastward, the two raiders lean forward in their saddles,
yet manage to draw long blades that glisten like order death, even
while spurring their mounts toward the low embankment that forms the
south side of the pond.  Lorn leans forward, giving the mare her
head.

Both raiders rein up, and seeing the single lancer officer, turn and
charge Lorn.

With a cold smile, Lorn reins up the mare.  By the time she has halted,
the raiders are less than a hundred cubits from him, and closing
rapidly.  He pulls his own fire lance from the holder and levels it at
the left rider of the pair.

Hssst!  The reddish-white chaos-bolt bisects the barbarian
chest-high.

Hssst!  The second bolt takes the right shoulder and the head of the
second raider.

The two raider mounts slow to a walk, as if hampered by the limp
figures slumping in their saddles.  "order dung!"  "never seen an
officer do that..."

Lorn hears the comments, but keeps the lance leveled for a few moments
longer before flicking the fire stud to the safety position and
replacing the weapon in its holder.  The acrid and metallic scent of
chaos fills his nostrils for a moment, then is carried off by a gust of
cold wind.  He turns the mare slowly as Nytral and the rest of the
squad rein up.  "Have someone get those mounts."

"Ah... yes, scr."  The senior squad leader gestures.  "Get the
mounts!"

"Yes, scr!"

Nytral's face is stiff, not quite pale, as he looks at his
undercaptain.  "Scr... that must 'a been a good hundred cubits."

"More like seventy."  Lorn knows his smile is lopsided, knows that he
should have waited until the riders were closer.  "Might have been a
bit lucky."  "once... luck... not twice..."

Nytral's eyes go to the lancer whose voice had carried, and the eight
lancers all close their mouths.  The remaining two farther east,
leading back two riderless mounts.

Lorn looks to the northeast, where the flashes of fire lances have died
away.  He gestures toward Nytral.  "Let's make sure everything's right
with Dubrez and Shofirg."

"Follow the undercaptain!"  Nytral orders.

Lorn lets the mare walk evenly back eastward along the southern side of
the pond.

Dubrez and his squad are formed up at the northeast end of the
iced-over pond.  Shofirg and the half squad he had taken have already
joined with Dubrez's squad, and Shofirg offers a head bow to Lorn as
the undercaptain nears.  Lorn returns the gesture.  After searching the
dead raiders, several lancers mount hurriedly, without looking in
Lorn's direction.

One lancer's saddle is empty-or rather two lancers are strapping a
lancer's body across it.  Two other lancers are tying seven mounts into
a tie line of sorts.  Three other mounts are loping northward, the
steam of their breath lost against the frosted brown of the hills.

"Stopped 'em all, scr.  Fought like black angels, but did 'em no good."
Dubrez gestures.  "Got some mounts, too.  Leastwise, good for cart
horses or the knackers."

"I imagine the sub-majer will decide that," Lorn says.  "You did a good
job."

"What we're here to doser  Dubrez pauses.  "Any come your way, scr?"

"Just two," Lorn answers.  "We stopped them.  You and your men did the
hard work."  He gestures toward the southwest.  "Let's head back to the
homestead there and join up with the Third Company."

"Yes, scr."

"Four abreast!"  orders Nytral.

"Column by fours!"  echo Shofirg and Dubrez.

"Captured mounts to the rear," adds Nytral.

For a time, the only sounds are those of the mounts' heavy breathing
and their hoofs on the frozen ground.

"Are the raiders always like that in the winter?"  asks Lorn.

"Pretty much, scr."  answers Nytral.  "They'll run if they can, and
fight if they can't.  In the spring and summer, they fight.  Don't ever
seem to run then."

Lorn nods, his eyes searching the area to the west, but the slight rise
beyond the holding blocks any view of the Fifth Company, and there are
no flashes that would indicate the use of fire lances

As they ride westward, past the dike and the end of the stock pond-if
that is what it is-Lorn studies the buildings of the holding.  The door
of the house hangs crookedly on one iron strap hinge, and a single
figure in gray lies beside the door.  Lorn cannot tell whether the
corpse is a man or a woman.  Another dark-haired figure lies on a bale
of hay beside the barn door.  That figure is of a girl, one not yet a
woman, all clothes ripped off her.  Lorn swallows as he sees the slash
across her throat.  He swallows again.

As they reach the west side of the holding, beyond the barn, Lorn can
see over the rise where the Third Company has formed up.  Zandrey's
lancers are walking their mounts toward the holding and Lorn's
company.

As the captain sees Lorn and his company, Zandrey gestures for the
Fifth Company to halt.

"Halt them," Lorn tiredly tells Nytral.

"Company halt!"  orders Nytral.

"Squad halt," echo Shofirg and Dubrez.

Zandrey rides up toward Lorn, and Lorn continues toward the captain.
Both officers rein up with less than a score of cubits between their
mounts.

Lorn's eyes are flat, cold, as he waits for the senior officer to
speak.

"Good job!"  booms Zandrey.  "Not a one got away.  Most of the time, we
can't do that with one company, and some escape."

Lorn nods.

"You did just the right thing in charging them toward us," Zandrey
continues.  "Too bad about the peasant holders, but if we'd have
charged before you got down the hill, most of the raiders would have
escaped."

The wind whines, and the chill drops around Lorn.  He glances up to see
that, sometime during the fighting, the sun has dropped behind the
hills to the west, and the cold of winter in the Grass Hills had
returned.

"We'll overnight here," Zandrey says.  "Barn's big enough for the men,
and the dwelling for us and the squad leaders."

Lorn nods, unwilling to speak for the moment, his thoughts on the
dark-haired, dead herder girl not that much younger than his own sister
Myryan... and the charge that Zandrey had never considered making.

XXVI

In the dimness of his cold quarters, under the flame of a single lamp,
Lorn sits on the edge of the narrow bed, holding a green-silvered book,
marvelling at the clarity of the angled characters that date back to
the founders.  The cover remains pristine, unmarked, its silver
shifting from one faint shade of green to another as he turns it in his
hands.  With all he has had to learn, and the tiredness that comes from
that and seemingly endless riding, he has read little.  He looks at the
back cover, but it too is untouched by time.

Yet the slim volume is missing two pages, and Lorn suspects that one
would have been a title page and the other would have born the name of
the writer, for there are no inscriptions anywhere within it that say
when the book was written or for what purpose or by whom.  There are no
numbers, no strange cursives or codes.  There are just the poems, and
no one in Cyad writes poems, not publicly, not that Lorn knows.  And no
one has in generations, at least not poems shared beyond a family or a
lover, and not that there is any restriction on writing them.  It is
just not done.

His lips curl.  Just as it is not written that a student mage who is
not properly reverential shall not become a full mage.

He fingers the pages of the book again.  He can scarcely see where the
cuts had been made to remove the pages, and the material of each page
seems stronger than shimmer cloth  No knife he knows would cut such
tough material so cleanly.  But the pages have been removed.

He opens the volume, almost at random.  He has promised to read it,
every page.  He knows Ryalth must have had a reason, a reason well
beyond sentiment, for though she has feelings, those emotions will not
betray her.

He reads the words on the page before him once.  Somehow, unspoken,
they are not satisfactory.  He murmurs them softly as he reads them
again.

Although the old lands are in my heart, in towers that anchored life
with certain art, in eyes that will not again see bold the hills of
Angloria or surf at Winterhold,

I greet the coming evening, and the night, proud purple from the
strange and setting sun and the towered ragged course that I have run,
towers yet that hold the chaos of life, and struggle with order's
unending strife, for endless may they hold our light against the long
and coming night.

Worlds change, I'm told, mirror silver to heavy gold, and the new
becomes the old, with the way the story's told.

Lorn shakes his head.  The words, or most of them, are familiar, but
hint at a meaning beyond the obvious.  Yet Ryalth had asked a question
when she had given him the book.  What were the Firstborn like?

Will the volume in his hands tell Lorn that?

The lancer undercaptain slowly closes the ancient yet ageless volume.
He will read more.  In time.  He has years at Isahl.  Years.

XXVII

Despite the clear green-blue sky, and a bright sun nearly at its noon
zenith, the winter wind whistles out of the northeast, chilling Lorn's
cheeks and ears, driving through the light earflaps on his white winter
garrison cap.  A faint dusting of snow lies scattered on bare patches
of ground beyond the shoulder of the road and on the brown grass that
stretches toward the lonely single hut and barn to the south of the
road that is less than a narrow cart track.

The hoofs of the lancers' mounts clunk faintly on the frozen clay of
the road that stretches northeast past the single stead toward a gap
between two hills.  Beyond those hills, according to Nytral and the
maps, lies another valley, one where three families raise black-wooled
sheep and some few field crops.

Using his chaos senses, Lorn practices listening to the comments of the
lancers in the first company behind him.  "winter patrols..."  "lot of
riding... last eight day first raiders all winter..."  "probably the
last, too..."  "like that last winter... two bunches all winter...
turned and rode away."  "let the undercaptain hear that... or the
sub-majer... be riding every patrol till you hit the Steps." "lancers
don't hit the Steps to Paradise... get buried under 'em... Drext...
even the officers."

"Specially the officers."  A low laugh follows.

Nytral, riding beside Lorn for the moment, turns in the saddle, and the
murmurs die away.  The only sounds are the low whistle of the wind, the
whuffing of mounts, and the dull clumping of hoofs on the frozen
road.

Lorn smiles at Nytral.  "Officers are the ones who send them out on
winter patrols."

"You hear more than most officers, scr.  That'd not be always good."

"So long as I know what they think, and so long as I listen to you and
my own judgment, knowing what they think is better than not knowing."

Nytral frowns momentarily.

One of the lancers earlier sent forward as a scout reappears on the
road leading to the gap in the hills, but he rides southeast toward the
Fifth Company with the measured pace that indicates he has found
nothing disturbing ahead.  Since the patrol is but Lorn's second alone,
the under-captain is perfectly willing not to be riding into trouble
with barbarian raiders.

"Looks good, scr," observes Nytral.

"That's fine."

The scout turns his mount to ride beside Lorn, and Nytral guides his
mount to the scout's right.

"What did you find?"  Lorn asks.

"Road's clear to the holding in the next valley, sers," the lancer
reports.  "No hoofprints on the road or the grass.  Herders are out
some, one or two, anyways."

"Good," grunts Nytral.  "What about fires... cook fires

"Fires from most of the chimneys, maybe all.  Could smell something
cooking."

Both Lorn and Nytral nod, nearly simultaneously.

Once the column, rising two abreast on the frozen road, reaches the low
crest that overlooks the next valley, Lorn again studies the valley,
trying to fix the details in his mind, hoping that he can, and knowing
that the more he can retain, the better the chances for his success and
survival over the years ahead.  On a slight rise in the middle of the
valley are dwellings clustered together and surrounded by an earthen
dike tall enough to seem high from where the company rides nearly three
kays away.  The whitish smoke from the chimneys is blown into a low
line that stretches from the northeast to the southwest.

"Cold as a trader's heart at tariff time it be, scr," offers Dubrez,
riding behind Lorn and to his left.

"Or a lancer's blade in winter?"  asks Lorn.

"Colder'n a good lancer's blade, scr."

Nytral laughs once.

Lorn merely nods.

Below the crest, the road turns more directly eastward, and they travel
another kay before they begin to near the earthworks in the center of
the elongated oval valley.  The earthworks are not insubstantial for a
small holding, rising a good six cubits above the level ground, and
close to nine above the base of the shallow ditch on the outer side of
the earthen wall.

"It wouldn't be easy for the barbarians to get over that," Lorn
observes.

"Easy enough to climb, but the old man here was an archer for the
Mirror Foot years back.  Taught his kin."

"So the barbarians could climb over, but they'd have to leave mounts
behind, and a handful of men and women with bows could pick off most of
them?"

"Don't know as most, scr, but raiding parties are not often more than
two or three score, five maybe sometimes, and they'd lose maybe a
score, and get little enough... some sheep, a woman or two, maybe a
young girl, and some flour and maize, and fewer mounts than they'd lose
in a raid."

A single herder stands by the open gate on the west end of the
earthworks, apparently the sole means of entry to the holding.  The
herder beckons toward the gate, and Lorn and Nytral guide their mounts
toward the man in the sheepskin jacket and leather trousers.

"Might as well bring your patrol inside the dike, sers," calls the
herder.

"Thank you," Lorn responds.  As he rides through the open, but narrow,
timbered gate, Lorn notes the huge pile of rocks on the top of the
earthworks, and the chutes that would funnel those rocks behind the
gate.  He shakes his head at the amount of effort behind the herders'
defenses.

The single visible herd of sheep is clustered in a corral beside a long
and low, sod-walled barn, and the corral is well inside the earthen
dike that protects the holding.  The man who has beckoned them also
wears a bulky hat with heavy earflaps that Lorn momentarily envies. The
local lumbers toward them as Lorn and Nytral-and the Fifth Company-rein
up and wait.

"Greetings there, sers!"  calls the herder.  "Leastwise, you picked a
sunny day to visit Ram's End."

"Greetings," Lorn returns.

"Hear tell that there were raiders west 'a here..."  The white-bearded
herder looks at Lorn but briefly, then drops his eyes.

"There were," Lorn admits.  "They killed everyone in a holding.  We
caught and killed them all."

"All?"

"Every last one, and the undercaptain killed two himself," snaps
Nytral.

The herder shivers, a gesture visible despite his heavy coat and hat.
"Come spring, their kin'll ride for blood."

"They ride for blood anyway," Nytral points out, a harsh laugh
following his words.  "This springtime, there'll be fewer riding."

"Fewer raiders are always better for us-specially for the herds."

"They pick off animals?"

"Last time they came into the dike, they lost near-on a score.  We lost
not a soul."  The herder shrugs.  "Be five years back or so.  Figure
they'll be forgetting afore too long."

"Their memories aren't that long," Nytral agrees.

Lorn glances at the lancers of his company, sensing their cold and
impatience, then looks directly at the herder, waiting.

As he receives the long searching glance of the undercaptain, the
white-bearded herder clears his throat, once, twice, before finally
speaking.  "Sers... we be a poor folk not to offer... but... we be not
wealthy, either.  But bread and some mutton stew we could spare for you
and your men."

Lorn glances at Nytral, catching the minute nod.  "We would welcome
that, but only what you can spare."  He pauses, then adds, "and perhaps
the use of your barn to let them warm themselves before we ride on."

"Might as have to take turns, sers... with two score mounts...."  The
herder offers a crooked grin.  "But seeing as we're glad to have a
patrol now and again...."

"And you'd like us to come back a lot more in the spring?"  Lorn grins.
The herder grins back.  "Can't say as any of us'd mind such."

"We'll accept your hospitality, herder-but only for a bit."  Lorn nods
to Nytral.

"First squad... you'll eat and warm first!  Shofirg, have 'em follow
the herder!  Second squad..."

Lorn remains in the saddle, waiting to eat and warm himself with
Dubrez's squad.  His eyes look to the frozen hills that barely seem to
rise above the earthworks of Ram's End, the Grass Hills that shelter
all too many barbarians, he fears.

XXVIII

Lorn sits at the corner desk in the officers' study, the one in the
northwest corner-where the chill and the wind seep in around the high
window overhead and plummet down to make it the coldest spot in the
room.  Even the low fire, fed by both dried dung and the peat dug by
the lancers on disciplinary duty, fails to lift all the chill out of
the study.

The undercaptain reads over the words of his last report, ignoring the
drafty chill at his back and upon his neck, wanting to ensure that
Overcaptain Chyorst and Sub-Majer Brevyl will have little to
criticize-or at least as little as Lorn can manage.  The valleys to the
west of Ram's End showed no sign of raiders, and the people there had
not reported seeing any barbarians in the past four eightdays...Two
mounts were lamed from being ridden and slipping on the icy surface of
the road beyond Eryutn... Lorn looks down at the words again and
frowns, then glances at the notes he had jotted down at the end of each
day of patroling.  There should be more to report, but he can think of
nothing, nothing to convey the chill and the empty kays that had
followed one after another as the Fifth Company has ridden patrol after
patrol for the past four eight days  One raid more than five eight days
before, and empty roads and empty hills ever since.

As the chill of a screeing glass sweeps over him, Lorn freezes
momentarily, then looks at the report he holds once more, studying it
until the unseen inner chill passes.  That chill is clearly not felt by
any but him, and certainly not by the three captains clustered around
the next desk, sharing several bottles of wine that one has brought
back from his midwinter furlough-a luxury Lorn will not see until after
his first complete year at Isahl.

Lorn half-hears their words as he looks up from the last words of the
report that will go to Sub-Majer Brevyl in the morning.  "that double
patrol put a stop to their raids..."  "can't do double patrols all the
time... too many areas don't get covered, and they'll know it...." The
squat and swarthy captain who replies to Zandrey's observation is
Jostyn, an officer Lorn knows only from the officers' dining hall.

"Barbarians know too much," suggests Eghyr, a blond and rail-thin
captain who always has a smile on his lips, but seldom in his eyes.

"They just watch, and when we go one way, they go the other."  Zandrey
takes a small sip from the goblet, still nearly half full for all that
the three have been drinking ever since dinner.

"Lorn!"  calls Jostyn, lifting a hand and beckoning to the
undercaptain.  "You can't write reports all night.  Have a glass with
us...."

"We'd like you to share some of this Alafraan," adds Zandrey more
temperately.  "We don't get it that often, and it'll spoil by the time
I get back from patrol."

"You could leave it for us," counters Jostyn.  "Warm us up with the
coldest part of the winter yet to come."

"Not the coldest," corrects Eghyr.  "The longest, but not the
coldest."

Lorn sets the report face down on his desk and pulls his chair over to
the corner of the desk where the three are seated.

"Lorn will enjoy his first glass more than you'll enjoy your fifth,"
says Zandrey with a laugh, pouring a goblet he has produced from
somewhere half-full and handing it to the undercaptain.

"Thank you."  Lorn takes the goblet with a smile, lifts it in salute to
the three and takes a very small swallow.  The amber wine tastes warmer
than it is, with a hint of both pear apples and trilia... and something
else that he cannot identify.  "It's good."

"Far better than what we usually get," comments Eghyr, "thanks to
Zandrey."

"My uncle's a vintner in Escadr."

"If this is his wine, he is very good."  Lorn has never heard of
Escadr, and he had thought he knew nearly every town in Cyador.

"He is good, even if no one's heard of Escadr.  It's a tiny little town
south and east of Biehl-not all that far from the rugged part of the
Grass Hills way to the northwest," explains Zandrey.  "And I tell
everyone that because no one's ever heard of it."

"He said the same thing when he offered the first bottle," interjects
Eghyr.

Lorn nods and takes a second, smaller sip.  The Alafraan is indeed
excellent, far too good for a Lancer outpost at the base of the Grass
Hills.

"City lancers never appreciate a bottle of Alafraan," mumbles Jostyn,
cradling his goblet.  "Don't know what it is to ride a Patrol through
the Grass Hills-or watch the white walls of the Accursed Forest for
some giant stun lizard or cat big enough to cross the wards and take
cattle or sheep."

"You haven't patrolled the Accursed Forest."  Eghyr laughs gently, but
coldly.

"Sasym did.  Saw both."

"He probably did, but he wasn't much good with a lance, and that's..."
Zandrey breaks off his comment with a shrug.

"You stay here for even a year, and you'll never be a city lancer
again," says Jostyn, nodding toward Lorn.  "All of 'em in Cyad... just
city lancers."

"Not all," observes Eghyr.  "Captain-Commander Luss'alt and
Majer-Commander Rynst'alt served in every Grass Hills and Accursed
Forest post."

Lorn does not ask how Eghyr knows, but resolves to be most careful
around the blond captain.

"Maybe that's why they're where they are," suggests Zandrey.

Eghyr casts a quick glance at the stocky Zandrey.

Zandrey's brown eyes reveal nothing as he lifts his goblet for another
sip of the Alafraan, a swallow that seems far larger than it is.

"That's the big secret, you know," adds Jostyn, his words even more
slurred.  "Most lancer officers are city lancers... never spent any
real time on the borders, never seen a barbarian across the shimmer of
a blade...."

Lorn nods, but his eyes and attention are on Eghyr and Zandrey.

XXIX

The Empress Ryenyel affixes the silver clips to her thick and dark red
hair, hair too coarse by the standards of Cyad had any one seen it
closely or dared to comment upon it.  She studies her freckled visage
in the shimmering cupridium mirror set in its silver stand upon the
glistening marble vanity before straightening.  The half-length mirror
reveals a figure somewhat too full to be called imperially slim.

She turns and walks from her robing chamber into the salon where the
Emperor waits, standing before the long white divan in his silver
audience robes.

His eyes flicker appreciatively from her to the divan.

She laughs.  "I doubt we have the moments for that, my dear, but I
thank you for an expression dearer than words."

The slightest flush suffuses his face, then fades.  "Would that there
were more such moments, Ryenyel."

"I would wish such, also."  She pauses.  "You appear most impressive,
dear one.  As always.  What audience awaits you this afternoon?"

The light wind that brings the early and warm spring air into the
Palace of Light whispers through the half-open window, bringing the
renewed fragrances of trilia and aramyd, and the Emperor Toziel glances
past his consort toward the tinted panes of that eastern window, the
one overlooking the Quarter of the Magi'i.  His eyes focus on the
chaos- and age-whitened granite buildings, and he shakes his head ever
so slightly.  "I must-we must-again review the conditions of trade with
Hamor and Austra, and the pirate-traders of Hydlen and Lydiar.  I have
asked Chyenfel for greater particulars about his... project... but
particulars seem to turn to smoke when I inquire."  Toziel laughs
ruefully.

"I take it that Rynst and Chyenfel still maneuver over the fire lance
that never was, and attempt to discover who might be the current Hand,"
the Empress murmurs as she steps forward and kisses her consort softly
on his left cheek.

"Or if the incident was caused by a renegade magus unreported by the
Magi'i."  Toziel chuckles.  "Come... I need you to listen to the latest
innuendos and veiled threats."

"After these years of my accompanying you, one would think he would
know my modest role or who the Hand might be...."  the Empress
begins.

"He doubtless must, but it is best not to mention the name, my dear.
Chyenfel can use a chaos glass to see where he is not, and he reads
lips, and others may as well."

"I doubt he is that accurate, love.  He does not ever talk about the
chaos glasses and their accuracy, and he would do so if he dared."  A
quirky smile appears on Ryenyel's lips.

"It is to his benefit, and ours, not to say aloud what his glass may
show."  Toziel steps toward the door that leads to the private corridor
that will take them to the audience chamber, holding it for her.

"So gallant... yet."  Her smile is warm and affectionate.

"I am merely the Emperor.  Chyenfel and Rynst are the gallant ones,
striving to save Cyador from enemies without and within."

"And Chyenfel will present his facts most carefully...."  A smile
crosses Ryenyel's generous mouth.  "Then Rynst will ask a few gentle
but revealing questions, and Bluoyal will look at each densely, as if
their words make no sense."

Toziel smiles at his consort.  "That is why you accompany me, and why
the Hand must remain in the shadows, for I need you both."

Their feet barely seem to brush the polished white stones of the
corridor as they glide toward the audience chamber, preceded by a pair
of Palace Guards and followed by a second pair.  All four guards carry
small fire lances and, since they are not Mirror Lancers, wear green
uniforms edged in silver trim.

The door opens as the Emperor and his consort approach the Lesser
Audience Hall, then closes behind them.  Toziel gracefully takes the
sculpted malachite and silver chair on the dais, while Ryenyel seats
herself in a silvered chair a pace back and to his right.  The marble
floor of the audience hall glistens in the light that pours down from
the high oval windows.

The three advisors wait-the gray-haired Rynst, Majer-Commander of the
Mirror Lancers; the almost-delicate, but steel-willed and sun-eyed
Chyenfel, High Lector and First Magus; and the heavy-eyed and ponderous
Bluoyal, First Merchanter.

Toziel nods, then speaks.  "Have each of you finished your
investigations surrounding last fall's murder of the outland trader?"
The Emperor looks at Chyenfel.

"An investigation cannot be termed complete without a resolution,"
offers the High Lector.  "The weapon and its wielder have not been
located.  The loss to the Treasury from having to purchase goods from
the Austrans has amounted to more than a thousand golds in less than a
full season."

"That would be a significant loss over time, it is true, were it to
continue," muses the Emperor, his fingers brushing his chin.

"Most significant," agrees Chyenfel.

"What words might you add, Majer-Commander?"  Toziel tilts his head
toward the head of the Mirror Lancers.

"Every chaos weapon in the armory has been accounted for-and so has
every Lancer who has ever carried one in Cyad, Your Mightiness."  Rynst
smiles.  "Unlike every Magus."

Ignoring the faint emphasis on the word "Lancer," the Emperor of Light
straightens in the malachite and silver chair.

"Ah..."  Bluoyal clears his throat gently.

"Yes, Merchanter Advisor Bluoyal?"  The Emperor's baritone is clear,
mildly inquisitive.

"Ah..."  Bluoyal extends a scroll.  "I have taken the liberty of making
my own inquiries, and I trust that you will find them helpful in
considering the most sagacious advice of the First Magus and the
Majer-Commander of Mirror Lancers."

Neither Rynst nor Chyenfel looks at the older mer chanter  Toziel lets
the guard at his left hand take the scroll, which passes quietly to the
Empress, then lets his eyes fix on each of his principal advisors in
turn before speaking.  "It would seem that further investigations are
unlikely to result in farther progress."  Toziel smiles broadly.
"Should any new facts appear, I will hear them gladly, but it would
appear that after all these seasons, the murder of the outland trader
should be laid at the hands of unknown assailants, perhaps smugglers or
other outland traders jealous of this Aljak's initial success in
Cyad."

"Sire... that casts much disrepute upon the mer chanters and the harbor
guards," suggests Bluoyal.

"Then let none say anything, and should anything appear, why then, we
will know who sharpens his blade."  Toziel lifts both hands
theatrically.  "Enough."  He looks at the First Magus.  "High Lector
Chyenfel... how goes the effort with the Accursed Forest?"

"As we have informed you, we have created a replica of the sleep
barrier-a small forest far to the north where the method has been tried
and met with great success."

"Except you do not know how long those wards will hold."  Toziel
frowns, then erases the expression as if it had not been.

"That is true.  But we have near-on a half-score of years of
observation, and the barrier yet holds.  We dare not wait until the
other chaos towers begin to fail, not when so much is at stake, Your
Mightiness."

"That may be."  Toziel offers a nod that does not convey agreement.

Chyenfel does not speak, but replies with a head bow.

"What of the shipyards, Rynst?"  Toziel's eyes turn to the
sabre-slender Majer-Commander.

"We cannot replace the fireships, your Mightiness, but we are about to
build a sailing vessel, based on the material from the archives, which
is speedier than all others upon the Great Western Ocean, and we feel
that we can build similar vessels if you find the need pressing, sire.
The use of cammabark as a cannon propellant appears promising...."

"You had mentioned these matters before.  Is there anything new?  Or
any unforeseen problem?"

"Ah... such vessels are not inexpensive...."

"They will cost more than you had told me, and armed versions will not
protect our trading vessels as well as the fireships do.  Thus, we will
need more ships, and the tariffs on the mer chanter clans will be
greater, and the profits lower... and few are pleased with the
prospects.  Is that what you meant, Rynst?"  asks the Emperor.

"Yes, Your Mightiness."

Toziel glances at the heavy-set Bluoyal.  "Are my surmises about trade
correct?"

"Ah... I would judge so, Your Mightiness."

"More lancers will be needed as ship marines," suggests Rynst.

"Requiring more golds," adds Chyenfel.

"Perhaps each of you could provide estimates in an eight day or two,"
suggests the Emperor Toziel.  "I would prefer that you not discuss
those estimates with each other."

"Yes, scr."  Chyenfel agrees quickly.

"As you command," adds Rynst.

"As you require," concludes Bluoyal.

Toziel stands, and the three advisors bow.  Then the Emperor and his
consort depart, Ryenyel remaining a half-pace behind Toziel until they
have left the audience chamber and until the door has closed behind
them.  They return silently to the Empress's salon.

There, the two sit side by side on the white divan.  Toziel's hand
caresses his consort's neck, and then her shoulders.

She turns.  "Chyenfel believes what he tells you, my dear."

"That is worrisome.  I would rather that he did not."

"You would have him lie?"  she asks.

"No.  I know he deceives, but when he does not lie, I cannot tell where
he deceives."

"That is true, and they will all start rumors, except Rynst, and his
truths will be taken as rumors."

He laughs sardonically.  "Of course.  But it will be interesting to see
exactly what kind of rumors each creates."

Ryenyel offers a tired shrug, then massages her forehead with her right
hand.

"I am sorry.  Audiences such as that are hard for you," he offers.

"They are hard on you, too."  She leans her head against his shoulder.
"Each knows something, and should each know what the others do..."

"Hush..."

"That is why there is an Emperor, and yet each would replace you, and
each would fail, and why yet we search."

"You are kind, I fear."

She shakes her head, even as it rests against his shoulder.  "I am not
kind, for I help you to do what no other can do, and we both suffer."

He turns so that his arms enfold her... gently.

XXX

Lorn stands in his stirrups, trying to stretch his legs while the mare
travels a section of road that is damp but appears firm.  The early
spring or late winter wind carries alternating gusts of chill and
warmth past the undercaptain, but everything is brown-the grass, the
road itself, the hills to the south and north.  The puddles in the road
are muddy brown.

The mare's forelegs are coated with brown from the mud of the road, and
even the lower parts of Lorn's once-cream-colored trousers are
splattered with the mud that remains cold and greasy despite the clear
and bright mid-morning sun.

"One time when riding the fields be faster..."  The words drift forward
from one of the lancers in Shofirg's company, carrying on a light gust
of wind to Nytral and Lorn.

Nytral shakes his head.  "The fields be like the great swamps below the
Accursed Forest.  You take a mount there, and he'd be in over his
fetlocks, then hock deep afore you know it.  The barbarians know it,
and we'll not be seeing them for another eight day

"So we're the mud patrol?  To see when the ground firms up and when
they're likely to begin their attacks?"  Lorn's eyebrows arch as he
asks the question.

"Aye.  That be why the Fifth Company rides now."

"To save the others for the first attacks... that makes a sense of
sorts."

After all, Brevyl had told Lorn that he'd be handed nasty jobs, but not
more than he could handle, and a mud patrol certainly fits the
description of nasty and within his capabilities.

At Lorn's open and humorous laugh, Nytral looks quizzically at his
superior.

"It's about what Sub-Majer Brevyl promised," Lorn says.  "He does keep
his word.  You have to admit that."

"Be times we all wish he'd not, scr."

"Probably."

Lorn's eyes drop to single sprig of green in a muddy patch a half-dozen
cubits off the shoulder on the north side of the road.  There is but
the faintest hint of red within the center of the tight-curled
wild-flower.

"Blood-drop," he murmurs to himself, looking to the northern hills that
conceal the barbarians beyond.

XXXI

In the late afternoon, before dinner, Lorn sits at the corner table in
the officers' study, his fingers carefully clasping the bronze pen
whose nib will bend too easily should he exert too much pressure.  He
dips the pen into the inkstand and continues the scroll to Ryalth,
ignoring the chill in the room where the heat from the
always-inadequate but long dead fire has much earlier died away.  have
not received a scroll from you lately, but I hope that is from either
oversight or the lack of interest in my stilted writing, and that you
are well and prospering in your trade.  If you have any spare coins, a
few might go to copper futures on the exchange only a few, though.

He half-smiles, half-frowns, his eyes going to the folio of maps set by
his left elbow.  He should be studying those maps, for he knows his
understanding of the terrain he patrols is still not instinctive-and it
should be, for the time will come when he will not have the luxury of
looking at a map.

He purses his lips and continues with the scroll.  most presumptuous of
a lancer to offer mercantile advice to a mer chanter but you know I
have never lacked presumption.  our patrol schedule is being increased
now that spring is about to arrive in the Grass Hills... and I may be
the one with little ability to write or to have my missives sent
southward to you.... You would be pleased to know that I have heeded
your advice about reading, and have taken care with that with which you
entrusted me.

After affixing the closing and his signature, Lorn folds the letter
flat, then glances around the still-empty study.  With no one near, he
holds the stick of green seal wax over the paper edges and focuses the
slightest flare of chaos he has drawn from around him on the tip of the
wax.  Almost as the droplet of green wax strikes the paper, Lorn
presses his seal ring to it.

"Much easier..."  murmurs to himself.

He still must write Myryan, a task he always postpones because he is
still unsure whether his words to his father about Ciesrt will have
made any lasting impact.  Since he has received but a single scroll
from his younger sister, and that far too many eight days ago, he
worries.

Finally, he takes a smaller section of paper, then gently cleans the
bronze nib of his pen.  He looks at the blank paper, then pauses.

Chyorst-the sole overcaptain at Isahl-walks into the officers' study,
surveying the entire room before his eyes come to rest upon Lorn.  The
overcaptain turns towards the junior officer, deliberatively.

Lorn slips the pen and paper under the folio of maps and stands as the
overcaptain walks toward him.

"Maps?"  Chyorst's eyebrows lift.

"Yes, scr.  I try to match them with what I've patrolled and study
where I may be assigned."

Chyorst nods.  "Can't hurt.  Might help so long as you remember that
maps are only an incomplete representation of what's out there."  The
overcaptain looks around the study once more before asking, "Have you
seen Jostyn, undercaptain?"

"Noser  Not since last night."

"Thank you."  Without another word, the overcaptain steps away from
Lorn, and then leaves the officers' study.

Lorn waits for a time before he returns to his letters.

XXXII

After entering the square tower that holds the sub-majer's study,
removing his winter jacket and brushing the dampness from the oiled
white leather, Lorn hangs it on one of the pegs on the wall rack set
forward of Kielt's table.

"Go ahead, scr," says the senior squad leader.  "He's waiting."

"Thank you, Kielt."  With a nod to the lancer ranker, Lorn opens the
white oak door and steps into the oblong room on the first floor of the
square tower.  As usual, Sub-Majer Brevyl looks up from the table desk
with the hard green eyes that are half-bemused, half-impatient.  The
submajer's thick white hair has been trimmed shorter than normal,
shorter even than that of a new lancer recruit.  He motions for Lorn to
take one of the armless chairs facing him.

Although the late afternoon is cloudy, with the indirect light from the
high windows weak, only one of the lamps in the pair of wall sconces is
lit, and the single lamp does little to dispel the gloom.  Sleet
patters on the glass of the windows, briefly.

Lorn eases himself into the proffered chair, then waits for his
whip-thin commanding officer to speak.

"Undercaptain," says the sub-majer dryly, "your next patrols will be
the most dangerous for some time."

"Scr?"  Lorn eases forward in the chair, knowing that reaction is
exactly the opposite of what Brevyl intends.

"It's simple.  You've survived a raid or two.  You're beginning to know
the land and your men and squad leaders, and it's almost spring.  You
think you know something."  The white-haired officer barely pauses.
"Don't you?"

"More than when I came, but I have more to learn, scr."  Lorn can sense
that an answer of some sort is required.

"So much more that you might as well say you still know nothing.  If
you think the winter patrols were nasty, you don't know what a tough
patrol is.  If you thought freezing to and from Ram's End was
disagreeable..."  Brevyl shakes his head.  "In another eight day the
barbarians will begin their spring raids.  Everyone has been telling
you how tough that will be, but I'd wager that no one has told you why.
 Do you know why?"

"Noser"

"Because a raider's life isn't worth dung until he's killed three
lancers-or more.  He can't take a woman from his own clan-they do know
about inbreeding-and he can't take a woman from another clan without
those kills.  So he has to kill lancers to get laid, because their
women are property, and playing around with a proven warrior's daughter
could cost him his personal jewels or his life.  And if he takes a
Cyadoran woman, she's fair game to be stolen or raped by any blooded
warrior.  Same thing if he takes a woman from one of those dirty
hamlets or villages they call towns."

Lorn nods slowly.

"Their women aren't any great prizes, and the few good ones go to the
proven warriors or the young ones crazy enough to take on a Mirror
Lancer company... or smart enough to get away with it."  Bervyl shakes
his head.  "All you are is an obstacle in the way of some young
barbarian buck's crotch-ambitions, a game counter to add to the stack
so he can stop having damp dreams and start in on the real thing."

"You make it sound like they don't think life is worth much, scr." Lorn
says quietly.

"Until a barbarian gets to be a full-blooded warrior, it isn't," Brevyl
replies dryly.  "I tell this to every young undercaptain who comes
through.  They all hear me out, and then more than half of them die in
their first spring or summer."  A snort follows a brief pause.  "I
don't care about the stupid ones dying.  Better that way than letting
them grow up and getting entire outposts all killed off.  But stupid
officers can kill good lancers, and good lancers are getting hard to
come by these days."

"Yes, scr."

Brevyl draws a deep breath.

The mannerism is deliberate.  Lorn can't imagine Brevyl being that
dramatic naturally.  The undercaptain waits for the next verbal
riposte.

"One other thing... Undercaptain."

Despite his resolve, Lorn stiffens ever so slightly within himself.

"No lancer officer with magus blood leaves Isahl until I say he does,
just like none leave the Geliendra outpost until Maran says he does. No
lancer with magus blood gets to be a majer until we both let him go on,
not that there have ever been many of you."  Brevyl smiles. "Tomorrow,
you're headed east.  The attacks are later there, and the raider bands
smaller.  Plan on being out an eight day and being attacked twice.  At
least.  So be careful how you use your fire lances

Lorn nods respectfully.

Brevyl stands to dismiss the undercaptain.  "Just try to remember half
what I told you, and you'll live longer and save more of your lancers.
And they're the ones who will keep you alive."  Brevyl inclines his
head toward the study door.

"Thank you, scr."

"Don't thank me, Undercaptain.  Just remember."

Lorn leaves the study, nodding to Kielt as he closes the door behind
him.  He takes his jacket and dons it before walking from the square
tower out to the courtyard and into the sleet that has returned to pelt
roofs, stones, and lancers like.

XXXIII

In the cold sun of late morning, the brown grass stretches unmarked for
at least three kays in every direction from the narrow road on which
Lorn and Nytral ride eastward.  Nearly two kays ahead of them are two
scouts, large black dots on the brown line of the road that slowly
climbs the long swell that is not steep enough to be a ridge or hill.
Behind Nytral and Lorn ride the two squads of the Fifth Company.

"Still another ten kays to Pregyn," Nytral says.

The senior squad leader's words are barely audible above the impacts of
hoofs on the road and the rising whistling of the wind that sweeps
southward across the fields that only hold last year's browned and
flattened grass.  With the wind comes the odor of vegetation that has
molded, frozen, and thawed-an acrid scent, sour but slightly sweet.

"The maps show that the road's flat.  Is it?"  asks Lorn.  He has never
been northeast of this unnamed valley, let alone to Pregyn, a hamlet a
good forty kays to the north of Isahl and the northernmost and most
isolated of the communities south of the Grass Hills to claim
allegiance to Cyad and the Emperor.

"Most ways.  The climb out of Four-Holders-next valley-is steeper than
the way in, but it's flat after that, bog-like until you get to the
real hills that border the Westhorns."

At the crest of the hill, Lorn slows his mount and studies the long and
sinuous valley that holds four families-a clan structure almost, Lorn
suspects, from the layout of the holdings with their multiple dwellings
and community stock barns.  Each holding has an earthen berm around its
buildings and stock pens-earthen because trees are far too scarce and
more valuable for shade or fruit or windbreaks than for timber.

In the depression on the northern side of the valley, a kay from where
the Fifth Company descends the hill, there are long parallel trenches.
Lorn nods-peat works  The two scouts have now almost ridden to a point
on the road abreast of the peat diggings, although the road is more
than a kay south of the boggy depression, and little more than a thin
lane winds over the rolling grasslands from the main road to the bog.

Slightly flattened by the wind, trails of smoke rise from the chimneys
of all four holdings.  A good sign, reflects the undercaptain.

"Not real friendly-like here," cautions Nytral about the time when they
reach the beginning of the valley floor and the road turns more to the
northeast, angling across the long and curving valley.

"Any reason?"

"Say we don't come here enough, let 'em take the barbarian attacks by
themselves."

Lorn nods, but does not comment.

As the Fifth Company nears the first earthen berm, the wind gusts
around Lorn, mixing warmer damp air with cooler swirls.  Lorn's nose
wrinkles, then relaxes, as he sniffs the smoke-burning peat-an odor far
better than that of the dung burned in many holds.

There is a gate in the first earthen dike.  Less than two hundred
cubits from the right side of the road, it stands half-open, with a
bearded figure in a sheepskin jacket waiting.

"Shofirg!"  orders Nytral.  "Send up four lancers."

Lorn and Nytral follow the four lancers up the rutted road toward the
gate, where all six rein up twenty cubits back from the holder.

"We'd be welcoming you, and your company of lancers, scr," offers the
holder.  "Don't have much, scr, but you'd be welcome to the water and
to stand down and rest."

Nytral eases his mount past the holder and partway through the gate.
After a moment of studying the area, he turns in the saddle and nods
curtly to Lorn.

"We thank you," Lorn tells the bearded man, who inclines his head
briefly to the undercaptain.

"Two abreast!"  Nytral orders.  "Straight to the troughs.  In
formation, by squads."

Lorn guides the white mare through the gate and to the north side where
he and Nytral watch as the lancers ride past them.

The ground inside the four-cubit-high embankment is earth churned by
sheep and cattle, dark frozen mud that will turn into oozing slop
within eight days if not sooner.  The odor of manure permeates the air,
mixing with the sweet-smoky odor of burning peat.  The doors to the
sod-walled stock barn beyond the water trough are closed and barred,
although Lorn can hear the lowing of cattle.

"Water by half-squads!  You be starting, Dubrez!"  Nytral orders, his
words ringing across the holding.

After the first squad has watered and remounted, Lorn waters his mare
before Shofirg's squad while Nytral watches.  The young officer then
watches as Nytral rides his mount to the trough.

The holder now steps nearer to where Lorn sits astride the mare.

"Have you seen any trace of the barbarians lately?"  Lorn asks the
local.

"Little early for raiders," says the red bearded figure.  "Bogs on the
north side still show ice...."

Lorn takes in the man's words, not understanding the exact importance
of when the ice might melt as a predictor, but understanding fully the
herder's feeling about its accuracy.  "Have they ever attacked before
the ice melts?"

"One time I recall, scr... be the year afore the last."  Nytral
remounts and guides his mount back beside Lorn's.

"Would that we'd be able to offer more, scr...."  The holder's voice is
almost pleading.

Lorn understands the plea, but were he to pay, even a few coppers, for
every watering or every meal offered to his company, his purse would be
empty well before the end of each patrol.  Worse, the holders would
come to expect it, and Lorn knows where that would lead.  "I would that
you could, too, holder.  I would that I could offer you some poor
recompense."  He smiles.  "Perhaps we will be able to remove some
barbarians."

"You do that... and you be doing more than most in these days."  The
herder inclines his head, slightly.

The last of Shofirg's men remounts, and the younger of the two squad
leaders turns his mount toward Lorn and Nytral.  "All the mounts have
been watered, sers."

Lorn leans forward in the saddle, toward the herder.  "Thank you." Then
he nods to Nytral.

"Ride out, by squads, two abreast."  While Nytral does not yell or
shout, his voice carries throughout the holding-and well beyond the
earthen dike, Lorn suspects.

Although it nears mid-day when the Fifth Company is clear of the
holding wall and fully on the road northeast, the light wind is but
fractionally warmer, still a mixture of warmer and cooler air.  The
road itself remains frozen except for a few muddy spots where small
bumps face directly south and trickles of water ooze from the raised
and thawing ground.

Neither Nytral nor Lorn speaks until the company is well beyond the
first of the four holdings in the valley.

"They don't think we've done much," Lorn observes.

"The Lancers never do as much as anyone wants, scr.  Specially out
here.  Might be different if the Emperor... if His Mightiness'd ever
been a real lancer.  Or if we had more lancers.  Never enough lancers,
never have been, I been thinking...."

"No."  Lorn frowns.  Nytral's speculations are not good for the
subofficer's future, not with anyone besides Lorn.

"Best not be thinking what can't be."

"That's probably a good idea," Lorn agrees.  "There are only so many
fire wagons and so many lancers, and there's not much we can do about
it."

For a time, they ride without speaking.

Herders from the other three holdings do not appear as the Fifth
Company nears, and passes, their earth dikes.  Nor are their gates
opened.

By mid-afternoon, the Fifth Company nears the eastern end of the
winding valley, a valley empty of all herders and herds-except those
within the earthen dikes that they have since passed.  The scouts have
ridden out of sight over the top of the hill, and the column of riders,
two abreast, starts up the gentle incline.

Lorn glances up at the sound of hoofs.  Two scouts spur their mounts
down the road from the crest of the low pass that leads out of the
Four-Holders Valley and toward the next valley, that of the Burned Out
Stead.

"Frig!"  mutters Nytral under his breath.  "Frigging raiders..."

"Halt!"  Lorn raises his arm, then gestures downward.  Behind him, the
riders of the company rein up.

Lorn and Nytral wait for the scouts, both scanning the road behind the
scouts, as well as the brown grass and the few scattered bushes with
their handfuls of gray winter leaves.  Nothing moves except the lancer
scouts.

"Raiders, sers!  They're riding up the far side, almost halfway to the
crest."  The words burst forth from the younger scout before he has
even fully reined in.

"A good four score.  Could be more," adds the older scout.

Lorn turns in the saddle.  Behind them, less than a hundred cubits
back, is a low depression, and west of that a slight swell.

Nytral's eyes follow Lorn's.  "Best we can doser

"We'd better do it, then."

"Column back to the rise, Shofirg!"  Nytral orders.

"Squad two back to the rise, Dubrez!"  Lorn's voice, seemingly less
penetrating than Nytral's, carries to the second squad.

Dubrez nods and replies.  "Second squad to the rise!"

Lorn turns the mare, and the others follow his lead, until the Fifth
Company has reformed on the highest ground nearby, in a single long
line, slightly convex, that for all its apparent length will still be
flanked on both ends by fourscore barbarian raiders.

"We'll let them come to us," Lorn decides.

"Not reined up, scr?"  Nytral's voice holds a slight edge.

"No... but we won't charge until they're hitting the dip in the ground
there."

"Won't slow 'em much."

"Will anything?"  Lorn raises his eyebrows, then pushes back the once
white garrison cap.

Nytral laughs, not quite hollowly.

In the colder afternoon wind, each moment seems longer than the one
that preceded it, and the hillside and road that lead out of the valley
remain empty.

"They were riding up, sers," insists the younger scout, although
neither Nytral nor Lorn has even looked toward the lancer.  "They
were."

"They'll be here," Nytral says.  "This time of year they don't turn
back."

Lorn surveys the line of lancers once more, then checks his own fire
lance  He can feel the chaos stored within it-red and golden white. 
His eyes flick from the Fifth Company to the hill above and then back
to the lancers.

One moment, the hill is empty.  The next finds mounted figures riding
down toward the Mirror Lancers.

"Lances ready!"  Nytral orders.

Forty lancers pull their three-cubit-long white fire lances from
holders and level them, waiting for the raiders to close, for Lorn's
command to charge, and for the inevitable order to discharge chaos.

Lorn looks at the sweep of riders-five score, if not more, arrayed in a
loose formation no more than three deep.  Unlike the mounts of the
barbarian bands he has encountered earlier, these horses bear no
saddlebags or gear stowed behind the saddle-not that he can see.  The
riders carry long blades, blades bared to the sun, each weapon a half
blade longer than Lorn's own sabre.  Even across the half-kay that
separates the two groups, the raiders' bared iron blades shimmer with
the ugliness of death-ordered iron.

The undercaptain forces himself to wait, to measure the closing
distance.  He moistens his lips, watching, as the riders loom larger,
bearded men bearing long blades, surrounded by another sort of
chaos-the chaos of blood-lust?

As the raiders near the uphill depression, charging toward the Fifth
Company, yells and unintelligible battle cries suddenly burst forth and
spill across the brown grass of the gentle slope that has slowed them
not at all.

"Now!"  snaps Lorn.

"Forward!  Forward and discharge at will!"  orders Nytral.  "Discharge
at will!"

The Mirror Lancers of the Fifth Company move forward, ponderously,
slowly at first, but when the two forces are less than a hundred cubits
from each other, the Lancers are moving almost as fast as the
barbarians.  "Slay the white demons!"  "Death to the demons!"

Other calls fill the air, but all are from the barbarians.

Abruptly, the barbarian line changes-gaps appearing here and there. But
the gaps are not so much gaps as the result of groups of three
barbarians charging toward a single lancer.

Hssstt!  Hssst!... With less than fifty cubits between the leading
barbarians and the lancers, golden-white chaos bolts flare from the
fire lances

Lorn holds back on using his lance, though he rides forward toward the
raiders, and finds himself leading the fray.

Five riders are swinging toward him as he finally lifts his lance, and
triggers it.  Hssst!  Hsstt!  Hsstt!... Not all the bursts strike
barbarians, and he ducks and throws himself sideways and under one of
the swinging iron bars that promises death if it strikes him full.

Then, gasping, he finds the mare has brought him through and beyond the
barbarian line-practically alone.  A good forty cubits to his right,
Nytral has emerged, and the squad leader charges back toward the mixed
of men tangled with each other.

Lorn wheels the mare and rides back-more deliberately, his eyes
flicking across the field.  Less than twenty cubits before him, a
barbarian lifts, not a long and unwieldy hand and half blade, but
something like a sabre somewhat more curved than that of a lancer.  The
barbarian ducks as he nears the melee, and starts to slash across the
unprotected left side of a lancer.

Hssstt."  Lorn flicks a short bolt of chaos from the lance into the
barbarian's back, then urges the mare toward the next group of
fighters, men hacking at each other, silvery cupridium blades against
the order-death-infused, edged iron bars of the attackers.  Absently,
Lorn wishes he could use a sabre as well in his left hand as in his
right.

Hsstt!  The chaos transfixes another bearded barbarian.

Two more barbarian riders turn their mounts, then, inexplicably, ride
toward a group skirmish to Lorn's left.  Lorn follows them, picking off
the laggard with his lance.  He wonders how long the chaos charge will
last, careful as he has been.  He can sense that a goodly fraction
remains yet.

A single wavering yell echoes across the afternoon, and a good three
score riders ride across the hillside, not back the way they had come
but toward the hills on the northern edge of Four-Holders Valley.
Beside and around the road, the Fifth Company finds itself without
attackers, except those that have fallen.

Lorn takes a long deep breath, feeling sweat cooling on his forehead
and the back of his neck.  He counts quickly.  There are six Mirror
Lancers lying on the brown grass, and he can see blood on the winter
jackets of half a dozen more.  He hopes some of that blood is not that
of the lancers.  Close to a half-score barbarian mounts are without
riders, and more than a score of dead or dying raiders lie sprawled or
crumpled in the trampled brown grass.

The light, cold wind cannot carry away the odors of blood and death,
not all of them, nor the odor of damp dead grass churned up by more
than a hundred horses.

Lorn walks his mount back to where the barbarian with the odd-looking
sabre has fallen.  His dismounts and reclaims the blade and the
scabbard, fastening them behind his saddle.  Then he remounts and rides
back to where Nytral is reforming the company.  No one has noticed his
efforts.

"Squad leaders.  Report," Nytral orders as Shofirg and Dubrez ease
their mounts to a halt opposite Lorn.

Shofirg's winter jacket is slashed open across his left shoulder, and
blood smears the oiled white leather.  "Lost four lancers, five
wounded.  Eight lances with chaos charges left," replies Shofirg.

"Two lancers gone, three wounded.  Eleven lances... most are low,
though," adds Dubrez.

"Use the barbarian mounts for the blades and any shields they left. You
know what to do with our dead."

"Sers..."  both squad leaders incline their heads, then turn their
mounts, heading back to their squads.

"Have they done that before?"  Lorn asks after a moment.  "Sending
three men after a single lancer?"

Nytral frowns.  "Hadn't seen that."

"They did," Lorn assures the senior squad leader.  "That's why there
were gaps in their attack to begin with.  They figured out that a
lancer has to concentrate on single attacker at a time."

"Didn't look that different," replies Nytral.  "Could be they've been
doing it for a while."  He pauses, then adds.  "Lot more raiders in
that party than most.  Lot more."

"How many are there usually when they attack?"

"Most times, maybe a few more than a company."

"They had more than twice what we did," Lorn observes, then adds,
"We're headed back.  We've got only got about two-thirds of a company,
and not many chaos charges."

"They'll be back... afore sunset tomorrow," predicts Nytral.  "Even if
we head back.  They'll follow."

"With more horsemen?"  asks Lorn.

"No... They can't go back to the clan without wounds or trophies.  The
raiders rode off... they didn't get much."

"Will they try an ambush, you think?"

Nytral pulls at his chin.  "Not so as you'd say that.  Low light...
some place where we'd not suspect... nor see... but no sneaking
round... usually don't pick off scouts... can't count on that,
though."

"We'll have to be careful, then."  Lorn has been getting the feeling
that there is little predictable about the barbarians except their
desire to kill lancers-and their success in doing so despite the effect
of the fire lances  The antique sabre, still solid, and Brystan, he
thinks, raises another set of questions, ones he will not voice, about
how better blades, if older ones, are reaching the barbarians, and why
no senior officers have mentioned the change.

Part III Lorn' Alt Isahl, Captain, Mirror Lancers

XXXIV

In the hot air of late summer, his third summer in Isahl, Lorn shifts
his weight in the saddle.  Then he blots the sweat off his forehead
with the back of his hand to keep it from running into his eyes.  His
hand comes away damp and slightly reddish from the road dust, and he is
careful to wipe it on the square of cloth tied to his saddle.  Even so,
his cream uniform is streaked with pink from the dust, as are those of
all the lancers in the Fifth Company.

To the west of the road that hugs the east side of the valley, the
grasslands stretch almost four kays or more before another set of
hills.  The tips of the blades of grass, some of which would reach
shoulder high on his mare, have already begun to brown.

Ahead to the north lies the Ram's End Valley, and beyond that one of
the valleys with an abandoned and burned-out holding, one that had
never been re-inhabited, Lorn suspects, because there are no streams in
the small valley and but one meager spring.  He wonders, not for the
first time, why the Grass Hills are drier now than in distant years
past when the first holders were sent forth from Syadtar.

He cocks his head slightly to better catch the murmurs drifting forward
from lancers in the first squad.  "better Captain 'n most..."  "no
great shakes... all we do is ride and get attacked... ride and get
attacked...."  "you want to chase barbarians all over the Grass
Hills?"

Lorn represses a frown, then beckons to his senior squad leader.

The square-bearded and craggy-faced Dubrez eases his mount toward Lorn.
He has been senior squad leader for over a year, ever since Nytral lost
a leg to a barbarian blade and hobbled back to his home in
Summerdock.

"I'm thinking we need a pair of scouts to look two or three valleys
ahead-way ahead."  Lorn turns in the saddle, as if to face Dubrez, and
raises his voice so that it will carry back to the complaining lancers.
"They might be able to find some barbarians so we don't have to ride
quite so far."

"Yes, scr, Captain," Dubrez replies, a slight twinkle in his eye.

Lorn unsheathes his cupridium sabre, lifts it, and then studies the
razorlike edge that can drive through best of the barbarian blades.
"I'm still thinking.  I heard some of the men saying it might be a good
idea."

The murmurs from the riders behind die away.

"Of course, we wouldn't be close enough to support them, not unless
they were very careful and could get a start on the raiders."  Lorn
shrugs.  "Wouldn't want them to get their throats slit so some
barbarian can claim a woman."

"Noser"  Dubrez nods.

Both turn in their saddles and ride silently for perhaps half a kay
before Dubrez speaks.  "There's more complaining now."

Lorn nods.  "There will be more."

"Not good, scr."

"We both know that."

The company remains still-or the murmurs low enough that Lorn cannot
discern them even through his chaos senses-even after the lancers ride
over the low pass and along the gentle ridge.

As the Fifth Company descends into the Ram's End valley, Lorn turns his
attention to the holding, far closer to the south end of the valley and
the route back to Isahl than the majority of holdings in the lower part
of the Grass Hills.  Most holders set their steads somewhere close to
the center of the valley.  Not so Ram's End.

Something bothers Lorn, and he keeps studying the holding as they near
it.  "What do you think, Dubrez?"

"Quiet... no one out, and it's near mid-day."

Lorn nods and keeps riding, watching.

Then, they reach the stream and the wide and shallow ford, Lorn sees
hoofprints-more than a mere handful, and as he looks toward the sod
walls of the holding, he can sense that all is less than well.  The
gate is off its straps-that he can see from nearly a half-kay away-and,
though it is almost mid-day, the line of smoke from the cookhouse
chimney is but a thin gray line, as if from a dying cook fire.

The single small herd of black-faced sheep to the southwest of the gate
are unattended-something that Lorn has never seen in three years-
except in the aftermath of a barbarian attack.  Lorn sees two silent
shapes sprawled in the grass-a herder... and a long-haired
sharp-muzzled black herding dog.  Dark splotches stain the green and
brown of the grass.

"Lances ready!"  he snaps.

Dubrez turns in his saddle and echoes the command, an echo amplified by
the individual squad leaders.

"Spread formation!  Forward!"  Lorn adds.

The Fifth Company reforms into a line abreast and rides toward the open
hanging gate of the hold.  The lancers cover but another hundred cubits
before two sharp whistles pierce the noon air, and the sound of hoofs
rises from within the sod walls of the hold.  Then riders pour through
the sundered gate, the first forming a rough wedge before the gate as
if to allow those who follow to escape.

"Charge!  Discharge at will!"  Lorn orders.  He spurs his mount, as do
the Mirror Lancers behind him, trying to cut off the barbarians, or
keep them trapped, against the sod wall.

A half-score of rough-clad riders gallop clear of the left flank of the
Fifth Company, riding westward hard.  The remaining two score raiders
squeeze their mounts into a tight wedge that gallops toward the Fifth
Company.

Hsst!  Hssst!  Two short bolts burst from Lorn's lance.  One strikes a
barbarian, and then Lorn is using both fire lance and sabre to parry
one heavy iron blade, and then another, before the mare carries him
past the edge of the barbarian wedge, and he turns his mount.

"First squad!  Shofirg!  Turn about!"  Lorn's orders rise above the
flashing and hissing of the fire lances  He follows his own orders and
wheels the mare, charging toward the western flank of the barbarian
wedge, guiding the mare past a grim-faced lancer, and then slashing his
sabre left-handed across the neck of an unprepared barbarian who barely
started to turn before the chaos-reinforced blade separates his head
and torso.

Lorn swings away, more westerly, as perhaps a half score of the
barbarians break through the Lancer's line, but the first squad,
following Lorn's command, has already reformed.

Hssst!  Hssst!  After a last few flashes of chaos, the fire lances are
discharged and silent, and cupridium blades ring against dark iron.

Lorn slows the mare, eyes studying the swirl of bearded barbarians with
dark blades, and cream-clad lancers with bright sabres, ready to lend
his blade, as necessary.  A wide-eyed barbarian breaks clear of the
fray, and turns his mount westward, as if to escape.

Lorn raises the fire lance calmly.  Hssst!

The barbarian slumps in the saddle, then slides downward, one boot
still caught in a stirrup, his weight and length dragging the mount to
a halt.

A second raider pulls clear of the fray, and Lorn again aims his lance,
letting a short burst of personally-raised chaos burn through the man's
back.

Lorn waits, but no other raiders try to escape, and, as the last
barbarian pitches out of his saddle, the clangor fades.

"To the hold!"  snaps Lorn, moving the mare northward and through
still-milling lancers.  "The hold.  Now!"

"The hold!"  echoes Dubrez, and then Shofirg.

As Lorn rides in through the sagging gate, a bearded giant darts from
the open door of the house, then lunges sideways and grabs a small
figure-a dark-haired waif who, surprisingly, recalls Myryan to Lorn.

Lorn turns his mount and pulls the fire lance from its holder, again-
calling on the force beyond pure chaos, for he knows there is little of
the stored chaos left in the weapon.  He lets the mare walk slowly
toward the barbarian.

There is blood on the trousers of the bearded man who holds the
struggling girl before him, as a shield against what Lorn may do.  "You
lift that lance any more, demon, and I'll kill her!"

A line of whiteness streaks from the silvridium tip of the lance, a
line so thin it is almost invisible.

The barbarian convulses as his face blisters into charcoal, then
vanishes.  The knife wavers, then falls from dead fingers, leaving a
slash across the small girl's face, and the headless barbarian corpse
pitches sideways.

The girl, suddenly released, staggers toward the still figure
half-leaning, half-sprawled against the earth brick wall of the house.
"...captain did it again..."  "hush..."

Lorn's eyes flick across the area of the holding inside the sod walls.
One dark-haired, slightly heavy-set, young woman-the one the girl
clings to, sobbing-had been flung against the ceramic screen that
shields the front door of the farm house.  Her neck is at an angle that
shows it has been broken.  The second girl, scarcely ten, continues to
sob loudly, clutching the dead woman, perhaps an older sister.

Except for the lancers of the Fifth Company, nothing moves.

Is there sobbing from within the house?

"Dubrez... have someone watch the little girl... and check on anyone
else here.  No liberties with her!  Or anyone else.  None!"  Lorn's
voice cuts like the sabre at his side, and he gestures at the four
nearest lancers.  "You four!  Follow me!"

He turns his mount westward, riding back out through the gate and
turning westward to follow the barbarians who have ridden away from the
road, and toward the nearest hill.

Two hundred cubits or so beyond the sod wall, he glances at the lancers
who follow.  The leading rider, the youngest, is white-faced.

Lorn smiles and returns his attention to the faint track of chaos that
he follows through the high and browning grass.  More sweat drips from
under the brow of the lightweight and white summer garrison cap, sweat
that he blots away as they continue riding westward.

The lancers cover a kay through the browning late summer grass, then
two kays.  Lorn can sense that, as they reach the slightest of inclines
leading toward a thin stream marked by young willows, the barbarians
are not that far away, and he lets the mare slow her walk.

The half score of barbarians have watered their mounts and watch from
their saddles as Lorn and the four Lancers ride toward them.

"Blades ready," Lorn says quietly.  He knows the fire lances of the
four are without chaos charges.  His fingers touch his lance, but do
not grasp it, as he continues to ride forward.

"You will die, white demon," announces the broad-shouldered giant in
the center of the ten barbarians.  The man is doubtless two heads
taller than Lorn, and four stones heavier, without a finger's worth of
fat anywhere.

"Why do you kill the holders?  They don't attack you."  Lorn's voice is
level, as he continues to let the mare walk slowly toward the
barbarians.

"These lands were our lands in the time of our grand sires grand-sires.
They will be ours again."  The language is the guttural barbarian
tongue only loosely related to Cyadoran or the Anglorian from which it
came.

"Why did you kill the girl?"  asks the captain.

"Women serve men.  She would not serve us.  Besides, she was
white-spawn."  The man laughs, mockingly.

Lorn lazily raises the light lance, seemingly without pointing it, then
concentrates, as he sweeps it sideways.  The thin line of chaos bisects
the six barbarians in the center of the group-and their mounts-one
after the other.  The giant is still clutching for his immense blade as
his upper torso crashes into the tall grass.  "dung-frig..."  hisses a
lancer behind Lorn.

The pairs untouched-two men at each end-look almost blankly as mounts
scream and riders fall.  Without pausing, Lorn turns the lance to the
two at the south side.

Hsst!  Hsst!  With two almost-delicate bolts of chaos, two more
barbarians fall.

After sheathing the fire lance almost automatically, Lorn turns his
head to the remaining two raiders.  "Go!"  He forces the words out,
fighting against dizziness, and a headache that threatens to cleave his
skull in twain.  "Tell your clan what happens to those who kill girls
and women."

The two raiders glance at the slender Mirror Lancer captain and the
four lancers who flank him.

"Tell them!"  Lorn forces a cold laugh.  "Brave warriors, tell them."

"Never!"  The younger warrior raises his blade, order-death edged iron,
and charges toward Lorn.

Despite the dizziness, Lorn draws his own shimmering cupridium blade,
then spurs the mare, leaning forward, focusing into the blade that
chaos he can draw from the air and land around him, and from the dead
and dying.

Reddish white light flickers from the cupridium, seemingly lengthening
the blade, until it is almost a lance.

The young barbarian's eyes widen.  He tries to lever the bar-like
great-sword toward Lorn more quickly, but he is too late, and the light
fades from his eyes as the chaos lance flicks past the death-ordered
iron.  He spews from his saddle.

The older barbarian warrior has turned his mount and gallops
northward.

Lorn clutches his saddle with his knees, barely hanging onto his sabre.
His head rings as though it were a bell struck with an iron mallet, and
knives of white pain lance through his eyes.

Slowly, ever so slowly, he eases the cupridium sabre back into its
scabbard.  Then his fingers close around the water bottle.  Each
movement is slow, deliberate, as he lifts the bottle to his lips and
drinks.

Only then does he turn the mare back toward the wide-eyed and silent
lancers who have ridden with him.

"Darkness, scr!  Never seen a light lance do that," blurts the
youngest.

Lorn offers a lazy smile over the anger boiling inside him, a smile
forced despite the dizziness and agony that he must fight to stay
mounted.  "Do what?"  "ah... what you did, scr."

The shrug is an effort, but Lorn makes it seem effortless.  "I killed
some barbarians.  That's what we're here for.  Gather the good mounts
and follow me."  Ignoring the moans from one bearded figure lying on
flattened grass, a man who will die shortly, Lorn turns his mount back
eastward, back toward the raided holding.

After a time, he can hear the mounts of his lancers as they hurry to
catch up with him.  He does not look back until the youngest lancer
draws nearly abreast.

"Only got two mounts.  One other lame-you killed the others, scr."

"Two will be fine, Yubner."  Lorn's voice is professional, neither warm
nor cold.

"Yes, scr."

Yubner drops back, and the murmurs begin, voices low enough not to be
heard, except by a lancer officer trained in chaos use.  "ever see
that..."  "more 'n once, Yubbie... more 'n once, and you'd not be
saying a thing outside the squad.  Understand?"  "just... killed 'em...
doesn't matter which hand holds sabre...."  "they'd do that to you,
boy... done it to a lot of lancers... see those girls?  Why you think
we're out here?"

"But..."  "not a word... See how many a' us come back... look at the
other companies... Captain Jostyn... 'member that?"

The murmurs die away as Lorn and the four near the gate to the
holding.

From his saddle, Dubrez studies Lorn as the five ride slowly through
the broken holding gate.  The last two lancers following Lorn each lead
a barbarian mount.  The senior squad leader rides toward the captain,
then reins up as Lorn does.

Dubrez nods slowly, then announces, "Lost seven lancers, scr.  Took
down near-on two score, maybe more."

"There were ten who tried to get away.  We killed nine," Lorn says
flatly.

"Your lancers didn't have any chaos charges left in their lances,"
Dubrez murmurs quietly.  "None of us did.  They aren't charging the
lances as much as they used to."

"That's why one got away," Lorn lies.  "I didn't want to risk our men,
and we did get all but him."

"Nine out of ten... can't out wager that."  Dubrez laughs, once,
harshly.

"Who survived among the holders?"  Lorn asks.

"Two older women, two boys, one woman, and the girl.  That's all,
scr."

"They'll have to ride back with us, at least to some other holding, if
not to Isahl."

Dubrez glances at the dead raider by the house, the one whose head Lorn
had burned off.  "We must have killed close to three score... and
they'll be back in an eight day or a season-who knows-and we'll have to
fight with less chaos in our lances."

"Maybe..."  Lorn offers.  "Can you get a few of those barbarian mounts
for the holders?  They can't stay here, and we might as well head back.
Not much more that we can do here."

"True, scr."  Dubrez's smile is grim.  "Should be able to find six good
mounts."  He turns his mount.  "Stynnet!  You and Forlgyt get six
gentle mounts.  Holders'll ride out with us.  We're headed back to
Isahl, captain says."

"Yes, scr."

Dubrez nods to Lorn, then rides toward the stock barn, to let the
animals out so that they will not starve until they can be claimed-or
slaughtered by another barbarian band.  "three score, and he killed a
score of 'em his self

Lorn can only remember killing slightly more than a half score, but
there is little point in protesting such.  He has long since lost count
of the barbarians he has killed.  He slowly studies the holding, as if
to note the details for the report he will have to write when he
returns.

The girl Lorn saved freezes as his eyes sweep across her.  Then she
begins to tremble.

The Lancer captain maintains a cool smile and lets his eyes travel past
the girl and back toward Dubrez.  "Let me know when we're ready."

"Yes, scr."

Lorn unfastens his water bottle and takes a deep and long swallow,
still ignoring the headache, the intermittent double vision, and the
unseen hammer blows to his skull.

XXXV

Two men stand on the shaded east balcony of the third level of the
Palace of Light, the balcony that is closest to the smaller audience
hall preferred by the Emperor Toziel.  The shade and the bare hint of a
cool ocean breeze are not enough to keep a sheen of perspiration from
their foreheads on one of the hottest of summer afternoons in many
eight days  The breeze dies away, and the air is so still that the
harbor to the south and even the Great Western Ocean are shades of flat
shimmering blue that offers no hints of whitecaps.  The stillness and
the heat keep any hint of the trilia blooms in the gardens below from
rising to perfume the upper levels of the Palace.

One of the double doors that offers access to the balcony is slightly
ajar, enough so that the two men can hear if the calling bell is being
rung.  In the corridor just inside the Palace, but a good ten cubits
from the octagonal panes of the ten-paned doors, stand a pair of Mirror
Lancers, each armed with both a rapier and a short fire lance

"You have not shown great enthusiasm for the plan of the First Magus to
subdue the Accursed Forest," offers Luss'alt, the Mirror Lancer
Captain-Commander, second in Lancer authority only to Rynst'alt.

"I have not, nor should you," replies Kharl'elth, the Second Magus, a
red-haired figure in white shimmer cloth  His green eyes bear but a
hint of gold.  "The First Magus plans for a future that may never be.
He would turn the chaos towers that surround the Accursed Forest into
the mists of time... and then trust that the three chaos towers of the
Quarter will sustain us."

"They have for many generations," points out Luss evenly.  "Rynst has
said that the plan will imprison the Accursed Forest.  Then there would
be more Mirror Lancers to fight the barbarians."

"With fewer charges for their fire lances and fewer fire wagons to
carry supplies."  Kharl shakes his head.  "The Accursed Forest is the
same as it has been always.  Some of the great beasts escape.  They
kill a few peasants and some livestock.  To stop a few such deaths over
the generations ahead, Chyenfel would sacrifice years of chaos-charges
for fire lances and fire wagons  The Second Magus studies Luss, then
asks, "Have the barbarian attacks become fewer over the years?"

Luss returns the question with a crooked smile.  "You well know that
each year brings more attacks."

"The Mirror Engineers already send chaos-cells powered by the Forest
towers to the Mirror Lancer outposts of the north.  How will your
lancers fare without such?  Or if the fire wagons can travel less
frequently?"

"I have asked such of Rynst, and he but replies that eastern Cyador
will fall, should the Accursed Forest slip its wards."

"None know that," Kharl points out.  "Even in the first days of Cyad,
the Accursed Forest did not even reach Kynstaar.  Better to lose some
lands, if need be, than to lose all of Cyador to the barbarians of the
north, for they indeed would destroy all we and our forbearers have
wrought."

"The Majer-Commander believes that the Mirror Lancers can hold the
borders... even with few fire lances  Luss shrugs.  "We always have."

"Perhaps they can.  Perhaps they can."  Kharl smiles.  "They might
require a few more officers... accomplished in other fashions."

Luss's face becomes impassive.

"Then it has been many generations... since one such rose through the
ranks," offers the Second Magus.

"That is not even an acceptable jest," Luss replies coolly.

"There are rumors about the Majer-Commander...."

"He is not, as well you know," Luss replies.

"Then... why does he encourage such as Captain Eghyr, or that offspring
of a mer chanter-Dymytri-or Senior Lector Kien'elth's son... ?"

"They are most useful in combat or in dealing with the problems of the
Accursed Forest.  Eghyr is most successful in killing barbarians, and
young Lorn is also quite capable...."

"I did not know.... You have not mentioned him in a over a year,"
observes the Second Magus and Senior Lector.  "I presume, then, he is
still alive?"

"As you should know, Lorn'alt became a captain last year.  He's in his
third year at Isahl.  That is one of the main Jeranyi attack points.
Commander Thiataphi had orders to use him on the barbarian pursuit
details."

"The mortality is... what... fifty percent?"  asks Kharl'elth,
carelessly wiping perspiration from his narrow forehead and angular and
clean shaven face with a white cloth.

"He is a young man of enormous skill and intelligence.  The
Majer-Commander is most impressed with the reports of his actions."
Luss smiles.  "He is rather good at killing barbarians, as well, and
there are many to kill."

"You have named three brilliant lancers with possible elthage talents,
and, if they survive, all could come back to Cyad.  I was not aware
that the Mirror Lancers encouraged such."  Kharl'elth shakes his head
ruefully.  "The Majer-Commander might like that, but it would not be
good for Cyador.  Not now."

"Do not worry.  There have been many such over the generations.  If
they survive their patrols against the barbarians, they will get patrol
post commands on the edge of the Accursed Forest."  Luss smiles.  "And
if they still show traces of elthage talents, and the ability that
might earn a promotion, then, well... our friend Maran knows how to
deal with a brilliant Lancer magus."

"I had thought so, but we of the Magi'i do have some concerns."  Kharl
offers a wry smile.  "You always have matters so very well in hand,
dear Luss."

The Captain-Commander frowns, then asks, "Why did Captain Lorn's father
not become more than a senior lector?"

"Kien'elth is a most respected senior lector, and one of the most
devoted of the Magi'i.  He is a magus among Magi'i.  As such, it is
unlikely that he will live long enough to advise Captain Lorn, should
the young captain avoid the fate you and Maran have planned.  Most
unfortunate, I dare say."  Kharl's warm smile does not reach to his
green eyes.

"None escape Maran," declares Luss.  He blots his forehead.  "Few days
are as warm as today.  Perhaps we should attend our superiors."

"Few escape Maran," corrects Kharl.  "Thiataphi did, but he
understands.  Is it not true that he has requested that he receive a
stipend before being considered for a position with the Majer-Commander
in Cyad?"

Luss nods.

"How feels Rynst about the policy of... discouraging... lancer-magi'i?"
inquires Kharl.

"Not strongly enough to oppose it.  Not when all the senior Mirror
Lancer officers support it," replies Luss.  "What of the First
Magus?"

"He is most opposed to any who might handle chaos outside the Quarter
and the discipline of the Magi'i, and on that we are in full agreement.
Full agreement."  Kharl smiles.  "Perhaps we should stand ready to
attend the results of the audience."

Luss nods, once more, evenly.

XXXVI

After a dinner of heavy mutton, soft potatoes probably left from the
harvest of almost a year earlier, and bread harder than some barbarian
blades, Lorn has repaired to the officers' study, where, under the
sunlight of a summer evening pouring through the high windows, he
rereads his patrol report, then nods, and sets it aside to submit to
Overcaptain Zandrey in the morning.

Then he lifts the first of the personal scrolls that had been awaiting
him on his return from patrol-the one from Myryan.  While he has
hurried through it once, he needs to reread it.  His eyes fix on the
graceful letters.

Dearest Lorn,

It seems so long since I saw you, and it is, more than three years. 
have almost finished my training as a healer, and now I go to the
lancers' infirmary every fourth day, and to the Healers' Indwelling
every other day.... Healing is hard, but rewarding in its own way.
Jerial said that a long time ago, but we get different rewards.  An
eight day ago, I received a healer's pin, but I don't know where it
came from.  I can't wear it yet, not until after the ceremony next six
day It's beautiful, green lacquer over gold.  A messenger brought it
from Syang the goldsmith, but no one could say who had sent it, except
that the purchase was arranged through a small mer chanter house.  It
is all very strange, and I wish you could be here for the ceremony, but
you won't even get this until I am truly a healer.... Lorn pauses.  His
warm and waifish little sister-a healer.  And the golden pin... he has
his ideas about that, too, but they are but ideas without
confirmation-yet.

Vernt is finally seeing someone.  He won't tell anyone, except father,
and I think father is the one who arranged it all.  would have liked to
have sent you a baked pear apple creamed tart, but they don't travel. 
I remember how you sneaked them from the kitchen, and once you brought
me one.  They tasted better that way.... After he finishes Myryan's
scroll, Lorn runs his hand through his short brown hair.  What can he
say?  Finally, he picks up the bronze-nib bed pen and dips it, then
slowly begins to write.

Your scroll was waiting when I came off patrol.  I was glad to hear
that you are finally a healer... like to tell you that I had something
to do with the healer pin.  I can't.  I would have liked to, but I've
never even seen a healer's pin.... Summer here is hot.  It is hotter
than Cyad, but drier... also would have liked that pear apple tart...
miss things like that, but, mostly, I miss the family, and the way we
talked, even with Father's long lectures.... When he finishes his reply
to Myryan, he picks up the second scroll- the one he had received just
before the last patrol, the one from his father that he had not had
time to answer before riding out to Ram's End, and the barbarian
raid.

Lorn slowly unrolls it and rereads carefully, as if he had not seen it
before.  While I did heed your advice about Myryan's need to mature
more, in the end, I have decided that her being consorted to Ciesrt is
far better than any of the alternatives, and they will be joined by the
time this reaches you.  I do know of your concerns, and they are good
ones, and I do not write this to mollify you.  All I ask is that you
return to Cyad and see her before you judge too harshly.... Vernt is
well-respected and appreciated by the older Magi'i... am comforted to
know that you are now a captain.  According to Luss'alt, the first two
years are the most dangerous, although he says that any lancer's life
is dangerous.... The scroll continues, with pleasantries, and then
concludes: I can see the patterns of the Rational Stars, and some
change and some do not, and some always shine brighter, no matter where
in the heavens they swing.

Lorn purses his lips.  His father has seldom talked of the Rational
Stars, and never written of them, for the Rational Stars are the
emperor's heritage, and not that of magus or lancer.  Then, there is
the timing.  Myryan's scroll had been written later, yet it does not
mention or even hint at Ciesrt.  Lorn had decided not to mention what
she had not.  Jerial has not written at all.  But that leaves the
question of how should he respond to his father?  He takes another
sheet and once more dips the pen.

Father,

I am sorry that it has taken a while to write back, but I have been on
patrol and have just returned....I appreciate your waiting to formalize
a consortship between Myryan and Ciesrt'elth, and I will follow your
suggestions in that regard... "Especially since there's nothing else I
can do," Lorn murmurs under his breath, glancing around.  "Not from
here."

The young and pale blond undercaptain-Cyllt-enters the study and takes
the desk-table farthest from Lorn to seat himself and peruse a single
scroll.  Beside the scroll Cyllt sets a nearly full bottle of the
darker Byrdyn- not nearly so good as the amber Alafraan.

Lorn nods politely before dipping the pen in the inkwell and continuing
his response.

I have not mentioned consorting in my messages to Myryan, since she has
not brought that up.... Patrolling takes special skills, and I have
been lucky enough to serve with those who have been able to impart them
to me.... I have been told that after three full years, I will have a
half-season's home leave, whether I am to remain at Isahl or be posted
elsewhere.  What may be my next duty will be decided in the early fall,
I would gather.... He finally closes.  and I look forward to seeing you
this winter.

Lorn has saved the scroll from Ryalth for last, for those are as
infrequent as they are welcome, and he wishes to reread it before
replying.  He notes again that the passage marks indicate it was sent
from Fyrad, as are all her scrolls, and hence their infrequency, and
after his earliest scrolls to her, has since dispatched his missives to
the trading house address in Fyrad as well-a far wiser course, he
suspects.

My dear lancer captain,

Your scrolls remain an unending surprise.  This poor mer chanter can
scarce reply to your elegant words.  I will not try.  I will but say
that the constancy which you never professed exceeds all that I have
heard professed elsewhere.  The Ryalor Trading House

Lorn still winces at the name she had chosen, despite the fact that he
knows he provided most of the coins to give her the start.

-continues to flourish, and we now have shares in three coasters and
two long-haul ocean traders.  Some of those shares are great enough so
that before long, we could well own one or more.  The long contracts in
copper have prospered so much that I have resold one at enough of a
profit that we could lose all on the other and still come out with
coins.

He laughs to himself.  She writes as though he knows truly what she has
done.

The word has been spread that my consort works the distant lands, and
we know that is certainly true in some ways, if but for my
unacknowledged mer chanter partner... although I have accomplished some
frivolities on his behalf.

Lorn's forehead wrinkles at the mention of frivolities, for all
Ryalth's words carry messages between the lines, and that is probably
wise.  All he can do is wonder and shake his head.  He is in Isahl, and
Ryalth is in Cyad, and furloughs have allowed him only so far as
Syadtar.  He is a lancer officer, and she is a mer chanter  He smiles.
While a magus could not consort with a mer chanter it would be but a
mere scandal if a lancer officer did.

At Lorn's self-mocking and ironic laugh, Cyllt glances toward Lorn,
then quickly down at his scroll for a moment, before the undercaptain
refills his heavy goblet with the Byrdyn.

Ryalor House is consulted now and again by several Hamorian and Austran
traders.  It is almost as if it were one of the smaller clan houses. We
are not that large, yet who ever would have imagined that oil and
cotton would have led so far?

I have engaged an enumerator.  He is nothing to compare to the first.
He is most polite, but he keeps calling me sire.  He says it is habit.
There are but two other houses and no clans headed by mer chanter
women.... "Here comes the overcaptain," Cyllt murmurs.

Lorn slips Ryalth's scroll under those from his father and Myryan but
does not move the report or the blank paper on which he will reply to
Ryalth.

The brown-haired and stocky Zandrey glances at the heavy goblet beside
Cyllt.  "Wine can become too much of a friend here in Isahl."

"Yes, scr."

Lorn keeps his nod to himself, recalling Jostyn, who'd taken to
carrying bottles in his saddlebags-first Alafraan and then the cheapest
fermented fruit dregs-until the barbarians had caught him off-guard.
For a time, Sub-Majer Brevyl had banned all wine in the study and at
Isahl, to punish the officers for not letting Brevyl know that Jostyn
was a danger.

"You knew," Brevyl had said to the remaining officers when he'd
gathered them together.  "You knew, and no one told me.  Good lancers
were killed, and that shouldn't have happened."

Besides the wine leaving Isahl-if but for a season-so had Overcaptain
Chyorst, as a mere captain.  And they'd later heard he'd died patroling
the Accursed Forest, although his body had never been found.

"Ask Lorn there about what wine did to other officers," Zandrey says.
"Or not, as you choose."  His smile is mirthless, and he turns and
walks toward Lorn.

Unlike Cyllt, Lorn stands, if easily.  "Scr."

"Sit down, Lorn."  Zandrey pulls out a chair.

Lorn re-seats himself.

"Nice patrol... Kielt talked to Dubrez," the overcaptain says
conversationally, although in a low voice.  "Over threescore
barbarians... that's a lot for Ram's End.  I checked the old reports.
There hasn't been a raiding party that large there in more than a score
of years.  Assyadt out west, yes, but not this far east and north."

Lorn lifts the report.  "Would you like this?  I just finished it."

The overcaptain shakes his head.  "Drop it in my box in the morning.
Did you notice anything different?"

"They formed a wedge to charge us.  It wouldn't have worked as well if
we had full lance charges."

"I got a scroll from Eghyr.  He said they were doing that at Abyfel."
Zandrey's lips form a crooked smile.

"He's the overcaptain for the west sector there, isn't he?"

"He is.  He'll probably make sub-majer in another two years."

"He's very sharp," Lorn says.

"Not so sharp as you.  You could be an overcaptain for one of Jeranyi
sectors, Lorn," observes Zandrey.  "Another two years and you'd be
ready."  A short laugh follows.  "Two years after that, it might
happen."

"That's what the younger sons of the Magi'i do, isn't it?  Most of
them?  Before they die, I mean?"  Lorn's words are gentle, almost
flat.

"Those who aren't talented enough to become Magi'i or stupid enough to
get killed by the barbarians," ripostes Zandrey.  "Or who don't get too
fresh with their over captains  The hint of laughter beneath his last
words undercuts their seriousness.

"I don't think I'll be an overcaptain for a barbarian sector."  Lorn's
voice is languid, an ease of tone unmatched by the coldness in his
amber eyes.

"You're meant for something."  Zandrey shrugs as he stands.  "Nothing
ever seems to get to you."  Then he grins.  "Just remember the rest of
us poor struggling lancer officers when it happens."

"If you'll do the same for me, scr."  Lorn stands and returns the
grin.

Cyllt's eyes harden as he glances from Zandrey to Lorn and then back at
the departing overcaptain.

Lorn reseats himself to finish the scroll to Ryalth, which will be sent
to a trader in Fyrad, from there to make its way to her through some
indirect route of which he is totally unaware.  His lips curl in a
slight smile.  That is to protect her, except that she was the one to
arrange it, to protect him.  As in this, as in everything in Cyador,
little is as it seems, even under an emperor of the Rational Stars.

At the other table, Cyllt takes a long swallow of the Byrdyn.

XXXVII

The hot wind blows out of the northwest, away from the raiders and
directly into Lorn's eyes.  He squints slightly as he looks along the
low rise, easing his white mare along the side of the Fifth Company
until he is barely forward of all the lancers, if on the flank.

The barbarians have formed into two wedges, almost a half a kay away.
As Lorn watches, a series of yells echo through the afternoon air, and
the two wedges begin to move, then to hurl themselves across the late
summer grass at the Fifth and Second Companies.  Dust rises over the
brown-tipped grass that is but knee-high on a mount.

"Cyllt!  First squad on the right wedge!"  Lorn orders.  "Dubrez, have
Shofirg's squad support the Second Company."

"Yes, scr!"  Dubrez answers.

"Yes, scr."  The undercaptain's response lags Dubrez's.

Lorn slips his lance from the holder, keeping it low, and aiming it
with his chaos-senses, at the knees of the horse that leads the left
wedge of the raider attack.

Hssttt!  The single line of chaos flame is brief, going unseen and
unheard beneath the thunder of the six score barbarians who charge the
Mirror Lancers.  The horse goes down, and so close are those that
follow that another four horses are tangled in the mass, slowing the
entire left wedge.  As the barbarians near, Lorn can make out clearly
that most now bear polished iron shields, small round ovals that they
raise to deflect the chaos bolts from fire lances that no longer hold
the power of years previous.

"Lances ready!"  Dubrez orders.  "Lances ready."

Lorn uses his lance covertly once more, for he draws chaos from where
he can find it, not from the inadequate chaos charges within the lance
haft.  A second well-chosen mount topples, and more physical chaos
snarls the left wedge of the charging barbarians.

"Now!  Dubrez!  Forward and discharge at will!  Short bursts!"

"Forward!  Short bursts!"  orders the senior squad leader.  "Short
bursts!"

Hhsst!  Hhsst!  The short bolts of golden-white chaos drop many of
those barbarians at the front of the wedges, but the mass of horses and
riders strikes the advancing Mirror Lancer line, which slows and
bends.

A barbarian, unbalanced by the weight of both shield and hand and a
half blade, slashes too wildly.  Lorn's cupridium sabre flashes like a
short stroke of lightning, and he is past the dying barbarian, driving
the chaos-reinforced blade through another's shoulder.

Lorn senses another rider to his left, and twists his body out of the
way of the unwieldy big blade, using a backswing to sever the
attacker's neck from the back.  He recovers in time to turn the mare
and take down another raider from behind, then spurs his mount out of
the center of the melee, using the sabre to weave a shimmering line of
defense.

Once clear, he wheels the mare, then waits for a moment, before
engaging a raider about to blindside a lancer tied up with one of the
barbarian giants.  Although the barbarian senses Lorn's approach, he is
too late-and takes a deep slash across the shoulder.  His big blade
spins downward, and he tries to smash the iron shield across Lorn's
sabre hand-his left-but that too is slow and late.  The sabre slashes
across the struggling barbarian's neck, and Lorn pulls clear of the
swirl of barbarians and lancers, a swirl that suddenly separates into
two forces once more.

Almost as quickly as it has begun, the skirmish is over, and Lorn
watches as perhaps three score raiders ride northward.  Several sway in
their saddles.

Around Lorn rises the chaos of death and the stench of blood.  He
glances at his own sabre, smeared with blood.  Dark splotches also
decorate his left forearm, and dapple his trousers.  He wipes the sabre
clean with the cloth attached to his saddle, then sheaths it.

"Find the wounded first!"  snaps Dubrez.  "Dispatch any of the
barbarians.  They'd do worse to you."  His words are directed at three
of the newer lancers, for whom this has been the first or second
barbarian attack.

Their sabres out, the three men walk slowly from fallen figure to
fallen figure.

"One of ours, here."

Two other lancers appear with dressings, and the three continue onward
through the bodies.  Once a sabre flashes, but none of the three
speak.

Ignoring the headache that comes with drawing chaos from the
grasslands, Lorn lets the mare carry him slowly to a section of the
trampled grass free of fallen mounts, or dead or dying lancers and
barbarians.  He takes a slow, deep breath, his eyes on the northwest
part of the grassy ridge.  The raiders are well out of sight beyond the
first range of hills to the north.

Lorn turns his mount.

Dielbyn, the senior squad leader of the Second Company, rides slowly
toward Lorn.

Lorn waits.

"The undercaptain... scr..."

"He fell," Lorn acknowledges.  "Bravely."  All officers die bravely.

"Yes, scr."  Dielbyn's eyes do not look away from his captain's.

After a moment, Lorn nods, then asks, "How many in the Second Company
can fight?"

"The second squad took most of the charge... six left there, scr.  Ten
from the first squad.  Four of 'em won't be much good in a fight."

Lorn considers.  The Second Company had been a half-score under
strength before they had started the patrol.  "Can the wounded ride?"

"Yes, scr.  Slowlike.  Except for Cymion.  Won't last much longer,
though."

Dubrez sits on his mount thirty cubits away, waiting.

"Get them ready to move out," Lorn says.

"Yes, se rAfter Dielbyn returns to reform the Second Company, Dubrez
rides closer to Lorn before reining up.  "Lost four, serA ll in
Shofirg's squad. Three with wounds in Gylar's squad."

"Thank you."  Lorn considers.  After starting the patrol with thirty
five lancers, the Fifth Company still numbers nearly a score and a
half, but the Second has less than a score of lancers.  Majer Brevyl
will not be pleased with two companies returning, but two raider bands
as large as the one the Fifth and Second Companies had vanquished would
be unlikely, and if Lorn presses on, few if any of the wounded will
survive.  Lorn also knows that neither company will be soon reinforced,
nor are fully recharged fire lances likely to arrive to replace those
discharged in fighting the barbarians.

Lorn's smile is fixed as he prepares to order the return to Isahl.
Behind the smile, he wonders.  How long can he continue to hold back
barbarians with fewer men and fire lances less fully charged?  At
times, he is already feeling that he can draw no more chaos for his own
use without risking his own life.

XXXVIII

Lorn remains standing before the desk-table in the square tower, the
late afternoon light from the high windows cascading around him,
illuminating the dust motes that hang in the air, some of which seem to
glitter with minuscule points of chaos.  His eyes watch the newly
promoted Majer.  "you destroy three score, but lost more than a score
yourself.  Then you turned back without completing the patrol."
Brevyl's voice is flat.  So are his green eyes.

"Yes, scr."

"You could have pressed on," the Majer observes.  "Others have.  That
is what lancers do, if you don't recall, Captain."

"Yes, scr, I could have."  Lorn keeps his voice even, emotionless.  "We
would have lost all the wounded, and we wouldn't have seen any raiders.
If you wish, scr, we'll return to patrol tomorrow."

"If any of your wounded survive, Captain."  Brevyl pauses.  "I liked
you better when you were a polite and subservient undercaptain."  The
Majer snorts.  "You're supposed to kill barbarians, Captain, not offer
me reasons why you aren't."

"Yes, scr."

"You'll return the day after tomorrow.  I'll transfer a half score from
Zerl's company to yours.  Not the Second.  Combine both squads under
Dielbyn and use them as a third squad.  You can have a score of charged
lances.  That's all."

"Yes, scr."  Lorn bows.  "We'll be ready, scr."

"And Captain..."

"Yes, scr?"

"The Majer-Commander likes lancer officers who follow orders and die.
He has little use for lancer officers who impose their own
priorities."

"Yes, scr."  Lorn meets Brevyl's eyes.

After a moment, Brevyl is the one to look away.  "You may go,
Captain."

Lorn bows again.  He also inclines his head slightly to Kielt, the
senior squad leader and the Majer's doorkeeper, on his way out of the
tower.

He crosses the courtyard and turns northward toward the barracks.

Dubrez stands by the side of the barracks building as Lorn
approaches.

"Scr?"

Lorn smiles.  "Tell the men they have tonight and tomorrow off.  I'll
talk to Dielbyn.  The Majer is restructuring the Second as a third
squad of the Fifth.  That will probably be until we get another officer
and some reinforcements."

"That could be spring, scr," ventures the senior squad leader.

"It could be.  It could be in a pair of eight days too."  Lorn pauses.
"Don't tell the men about the Second yet."

"Noser  Best to let Dielbyn tell 'em."  Dubrez's smile is ironic.
"Won't hurt to have another squad, a full one."

"No.  It won't."  Lorn glances toward the stables, where he can see
several lancers still grooming mounts, then back to Dubrez.  "I'm going
to the infirmary.  Then I'll find Dielbyn."

"Yes, scr."

Lorn's boots barely whisper on the hard stones of the courtyard as he
walks along the north side of the barracks.  He steps through the
untended and time-darkened white oak door.  The infirmary consists of a
long bay at the north end of the barracks, with a dozen pallet bunks on
each side.  In more than two years, Lorn has never seen more than a
half score lancers in the infirmary, and he has used his healing
talents secretly and sparingly, for the energy required is great, and
he does not wish that talent known.  What he plans is a somewhat
greater risk, but if all the wounded die, he risks even greater
displeasure from the Majer.

There are three lancers laid out in the infirmary bunks, lying in the
alternate bunks on the south side.  Lorn's eyes flick to the first man,
almost sprawled on his back, his under tunic half ripped away from his
chest.  With each intermittent breath, the lancer gurgles, then
shudders.  His eyes are wide open, seeing nothing.  The captain can
sense the whitish red of chaos that envelops the man, chaos so raw and
pervasive that Lorn knows the man will die within the day.

Slowly, Lorn walks past the dying man and an empty pallet to the third
bed, where a stocky blond lancer is propped up with horsehair pillows,
covered with a faded gray cotton cloth.

"Scr?"  asks the lancer, who wears a wood and leather brace around his
lower left leg.

"I wanted to see how you're doing, Eltak."  Lorn offers a smile.

"Be all right, scr."

"I'm sure you will be."  Lorn nods and leans forward, his fingers
touching the brace.  "It's not causing a sore, is it?"

"Noser"

Lorn has to struggle to summon the smallest bit of dark order, so
opposed to the flow of chaos, to squeeze away the clump of red chaos
that lingers where the broken bones meet.  He keeps smiling as he
straightens.  While the bone is set, and healing, and Eltak will
recover, he will limp.  "You'll be riding again in a season."

"Thought so, scr."

Lorn nods and moves past another empty pallet to the third lancer,
where he stops.  An angular young man with wiry black hair lies propped
up with pillows, a dressing across his right shoulder.  Lorn has to
search his memory for the man's name, although the lancer is in
Shofirg's squad.  After a moment, Lorn asks, "How are you feeling,
Stynnet?"

"Felt better, scr, and I'd feel even better iffn they'd let me go."

Lorn can sense the points of red chaos beneath the stitches and the
dressing.  While they are small, without a healer, they will grow until
Stynnet will be dying like the older lancer in the first bed.

"You're not as well as you feel, lancer," Lorn says gently.  "Close
your eyes.  Keep them closed until I tell you to open them."

"Scr?"  Stynnet's forehead crinkles.  His mouth opens as if to
protest.

"If you want..."  Lorn stops and fixes his eyes on Stynnet.  "Lancer...
don't argue.  Just do it."

Stynnet swallows.  "Yes, scr."  He closes his eyes.

Lorn lets the tips of the fingers of his left hand rest lightly on
Stynnet's skin just above the top edge of the dressing.  Trying to call
up what little he has learned from Myryan and Jerial, Lorn tries to let
the black mist of order-the order-death of chaos, but a necessary one
here-around the points of wound chaos he can sense, one point after
another, until they vanish.  They may return, but Stynnet's own
chaos-order balance can cope by then-Lorn hopes.  He straightens and
takes a slow breath, not showing the momentary dizziness that swirls
around and through him.

Stynnet's eyes are still closed.

"You can open your eyes, lancer."

"Scr... felt funny... what did you do?"

"Just offered some good thoughts...."  Lorn feels as though his smile
is lopsided.  "We want you back riding."

"Scr...?"

"Yes?"  Lorn waits, a more easy smile upon his lips.

"Nothing, scr."  Stynnet does not conceal a slight frown.

"You'll be fine, Stynnet."  Lorn nods and turns.  He still has to break
the news to Dielbyn about the lancers of the Second Company being
attached to the Fifth.  Then, he will ensure that the promised lances
are indeed charged and ready-perhaps slightly more charged than Brevyl
anticipates.  How much of that he can do he is far from certain, and it
will entail another splitting headache-in more ways than one.

Once more... he must balance what he can do with what he would choose
to do.  And without overtly revealing any more than he must to
survive.

XXXIX

The harvest sun is barely peering above the eastern wall of the outpost
at Isahl when Lorn slips silently through the time-stained white oak
door and into the north barracks for another one of his unannounced
inspections before a patrol.

He can hear voices from the bunks past the columns on his right which
separate the marshalling area from the bunking spaces of the company's
two squads.  A slender brown-haired lancer walks past the columns
barefooted, on his way to the jakes, Lorn suspects.

The lancer's head jerks up.  "Scr?"

"Quiet, Yubner," Lorn murmurs, putting his index finger to his lips.

Yubner swallows.

Lorn smiles and motions for him to continue.

With a look back over his shoulder, Yubner hurries away, his bare feet
slapping on the cool stone tiles of the barracks floor.

Lorn eases toward the square granite columns, listening as he does,
recognizing the rough-edged voice.  "don't know what he did... don't
care... they didn't think I was going to walk out of there.  Gwinnt
died.  Eltak and I didn't...."

"Maybe he's a black one...."  The words choked off, as if they had been
stopped by Stynnet's angular hand around the other lancer's neck.

Lorn has to strain to make out the words hissed by Stynnet.  "You say
one word... and you'll end up with a lance in your back... I was
dead... didn't know it... don't care if he's the head of the Black
Angels... first one in line and stands behind his men... angel-damned
few officers do... you hear me?"

"Ulp... hear you..."

Lorn steps back toward the barracks door, where he turns and waits for
Yubner to return, or for another lancer.

Yubner returns before another lancer appears, walking far more
cautiously, eyes surveying the open marshalling space between the two
ends of the barracks.  The south end is empty, since the Fourth Company
had left on patrol the day before.  Yubner glances apprehensively at
his captain, but does not speak.

Lorn steps toward Yubner.  "You can announce me, Yubner.  Make it
loud."

"Yes, scr."  Yubner squares his shoulders.  "Captain in the barracks!
Captain in the barracks."

Boots scuffle.  Several wooden foot chests shut, and the murmurs of
various conversations die away as Lorn steps past the pillars.  His
voice is not loud, but carries.  "Let's take a look at the gear you'll
be using today."

Lancers stand beside their foot chests, waiting.

The barracks are standard.  Each lancer has a pallet bunk, the head to
the brick wall, the foot to the center, with the wooden uniform chest
flush against the food of the bed.  On the wall beside each bunk are
three pegs- one for the winter jacket, one for the uniform of the day,
and one for the lancer's garrison cap.  Each bunk set opposite another
and is separated from those that flank it by six cubits.  A single
narrow window also separates each bunk from the next.  The aisle
between the foot chests is six cubits.  A single narrow window also
separates each bunk from the next.  The aisle between the foot chests
is six cubits.  The first squad bunks on the east wall, the second on
the west wall.

At the third bunk on his left, Lorn pauses, sensing as much as seeing a
spot on the hilt of a sabre.  "Westy... show me the blade, if you
would?"

"Yes, scr."  The lancer swallows, but complies and lays the bare sabre
out for Lorn to check.

Lorn studies the cupridium blade.  "You're not getting it clean under
the guard."

"Yes, scr."

The captain nods and continues down the aisle.  At times, he barely
glances at a lancer's pallet or gear.  At other times, he stops.

"Would you open the foot chest, Sherzak?"

"Ah... yes, scr."  The muscular lancer flushes, but lifts the top, to
reveal uniform tunics neatly folded.

"And the tunics, too, if you would."

Under the trousers beneath the tunics are three bottles of Alafraan.
Sherzak looks impassively at his captain.

"I could break them and have you clean up the mess," Lorn says mildly.
"Or I could make you scout alone on patrol today."  Lorn pauses, but
not long enough for the lancer to speak.  "But anything like that would
hurt the Company and waste good wine.  Take those to Kielt-right now-
and tell him that I said they're to go in the strong room, along with
other personal valuables, until you have furlough.  It is valuable."
Lorn's smile is wintry.  "There won't be a next time, Sherzak.  Is that
clear?"

"Yes, scr."

Lorn nods and continues down the center of the barracks, then halts
opposite a foot chest.  "If you would open the chest, Skyr?"

"Yes, serA muffled snicker comes from somewhere at the lancer's
resigned tone, but Skyr lifts the lid.

"At the bottom... in the rear."

Skyr removes all the tunics and trousers and smallclothes.  A slightly
more curved sabre, another antique Brystan sabre, lies there in a worn
dark brown scabbard.

Lorn lifts his eyebrows.

"Wanted a trophy, scr.  I'm sorry, scr."

Lorn smiles, not unpleasantly.  "Just turn it in to Kielt.  After
patrol.  Less questions that way."  He still wonders how the barbarians
had obtained Brystan sabres, especially ones relatively new, like his,
although the style of Lorn's is antique, as is that of the one picked
up by Skyr.

"Yes, scr!"

Lorn stops one more time, at the next-to-last bunk on the right side,
where he addresses a stocky red-haired lancer.

"Teikyl, have those boots resoled after this patrol, and tell the boot
maker to use the thicker leather this time.  Tell him that I said
that."

"Yes, scr."

Lorn nods and checks the last two bunks.  When he is finished, he turns
and walks slowly back up the center space between the bunks, his eyes
meeting those of each lancer once more as he passes.  He stops and
turns just short of the pillars that form the barrier separating Fifth
Company's space from the marshalling area.  "You and your gear look
good.  Carry on."

Then he continues past the pillars and turns toward the door to the
courtyard.  "never know when he'll show up..."  "just knows..."

Lorn pauses, as if to check the pointing on the bricks beside the
doorway, letting his chaos senses try to pick up what Stynnet is saying
to Yubner.  "he hear... ?"  "don't know... got that smile... told me to
announce him...."

Lorn steps through the doorway and into the faintly orange light of
dawn.

Fifth Company has another patrol to ride, one that Lorn hopes will be
uneventful, even as he prepares for it to be otherwise.

XL

Lorn steps into the study in the square tower and glances toward the
outpost commander.  The darkness under the Majer's eyes is obvious for
the first time Lorn can recall.  Brevyl's face is almost gaunt, and his
short bushy hair is thinner.  The faintest hint of raspiness edges his
voice as he gestures.  "Take a seat, Captain."  He lifts a scroll
slightly, then sets it on the table-desk.

Lorn nods and settles into the armless wooden chair, his own eyes
remaining on the white-haired majer.

"You're being ordered to the main outpost at Geliendra, Captain Lorn.
You will command a company whose duty is to guard the ward-wall and to
protect the Mirror Engineers.  After home leave in Cyad."  Brevyl
snorts, lifting the order scroll from the desk again, before dropping
it on the polished wood.  His eyes flick to the doorway, as if to
ensure that the white oak door is securely closed.  "Stupid orders.
Waste of training."

There is little Lorn can say.  He says nothing, waiting for the majer's
next words.

"I didn't like you, Captain, when you came here as a green
undercaptain.  Well... you're as good a captain as I've got, better
than most I'll ever get, and I still don't like you."  The majer leans
forward.  "That doesn't matter.  I respect you.  You work hard. Lancers
all want to serve under you, and they follow your orders to the word. 
You kill more barbarians and lose fewer men than any officer I have.  I
have to respect all that.  I don't have to like you."

Lorn nods slightly.

"You know that most of the senior officers in Cyad don't like Magi'i
trained lancer officers.  Neither do the Magi'i.  And they like the
good ones even less.  In a word, they're afraid of you.  They have been
afraid of men like you for the past four generations, ever since
Alyiakal made himself emperor.  They don't want it to happen again."
Brevyl snorts.  "It couldn't happen now, but they don't see that.  If
it did, it wouldn't last because the chaos towers won't last that much
longer.  What earthly good would a magus-born Emperor be without the
chaos powers of the towers?"

The majer studies Lorn, then continues.  "You didn't blink an eye at
what I said.  You knew all that before you came here.  You said it
didn't matter that they were twisting a splintered staff up your
rectum.  I've heard that before from others.  All words."  Brevyl leans
back.  "You believed those words, and you went out to learn how to kill
barbarians and lead your men... and save them."

"Yes, scr.  I tried."

Brevyl brushes away Lorn's words with his left hand.  "So... now
they'll send you to Geliendra, and if you're not careful, one night a
stun lizard or a big cat will appear, and you'll disappear.  No one
will see the creature of the Accursed Forest, but you'll be gone."
Brevyl's smile is harsh.  "I don't like you, but sending you to
Geliendra is a waste of a good captain when I don't get many.  They'd
rather see half of Cyador fall to the barbarians than risk another
emperor like Alyiakal.  They forget he was the best emperor in a
century.  All they recall is that he was a magus-born lancer."  The
majer laughs once more.  "He was an emperor who didn't bow and scrape
to the Magi'i... or ask the price of everything from his oh so dear and
valued mer chanter advisors."

Lorn has not heard more than offhand references by his father to the
origins of the mighty Alyiakal, references that had prompted covert
research in his sire's books.  He waits, sensing that Brevyl has indeed
told the truth in all of what he has said.  Lorn hopes the majer may
add more.

"That's all, Captain."  Brevyl stands and extends the scroll.  "You can
leave tomorrow, or the day after, at your choice.  You're off patrols,
right now."

Lorn stands quickly, gracefully, and takes the scroll.  He bows his
head.  "Yes, scr.  Thank you for everything, scr."

"And, Captain?"

"Scr?"

"I never said anything except to give you your orders and wish you well
with Majer Maran.  He's very good at what he does."

"Yes, scr."  Lorn bows again.  "Yes, scr."

Brevyl watches, unblinking, as Lorn turns, then opens the aged white
oak door that predates the emperor Alyiakal.

In the narrow corridor outside the majer's study, with the order scroll
in his hand, Lorn nods at Kielt.

"Be wishing you a good trip and success, scr," offers the senior squad
leader.

"Thank you, Kielt."  Lorn walks slowly out of the square tower and into
the gray fall afternoon.  A light mist seeps down from the low-hanging
clouds, leaving a glistening sheen of water on the stones of the
outpost courtyard.

"Maran."  Lorn murmurs the name to fix it in his mind.  Brevyl had
dropped the name advisedly, most advisedly.  The question wasn't why so
much as what he expected of Lorn-and Brevyl definitely expected
something.  Then, Brevyl had always been like that, never acknowledging
the slightest possibility that Lorn might have some magely abilities.
The Mirror Lancers were happy to benefit from those abilities, but
would never acknowledge them in any positive way.  That Lorn
understands all too well.

After standing for several moments in the misty courtyard, Lorn begins
to walk toward the officers' barracks.

XLI

Lorn folds the heavy winter tunic and lays it on the bed next to the
other uniforms he has folded before he will pack them in his kit
bags.

As he lifts an under tunic he catches a flash of greenish light and
picks up the silver-covered volume.  He flips through the pages he has
not read recently.  Had the ancient writer written aught about duty
changes from a bad outpost to a worse one?  His lips quirk as another
question surfaces.  Why is there no poetry written in Cyad?  Lorn
frowns.  He cannot remember ever seeing a written poem before
Ryalth-yet he had known what the verse had been.  He stops at the one
verse that catches his eye and reads softly, aloud, if barely.

Do not ask me which carillon has rung or if the Forest's silent god has
sung.

Best you watch white granite towers, raised in pride, doze in the dusky
sun until the altered green-bloody rivers run down to the coming night
where chaos cowers.

Wondering how and why chaos could cower, Lorn still winces at the
images, and riffles through the unmarked pages until he comes to a
short verse standing by itself-about smiles.  Perhaps... He reads.

Smiles are so fragile, like images on the pond of being, reflections
only made possible by the black depths beneath.

What had been written is not exactly a poem, he reflects.  Still... do
not smiles hide depths no one wishes to see?

Poetry will not help with the Accursed Forest, nor speed him to Cyad
and Ryalth.  He closes the book, and slips it into the bag between his
smallclothes.

XLII

In the orange light of dawn at Syadtar, Lorn stands beside one of the
fluted white columns supporting the sunstone portico that shelters
travelers waiting for the fire wagons which link the far flung cities
of Cyador.  The chaos-powered vehicles roll along the polished stone
highways from warm and western Summerdock to the southern delta city of
Fyrad, from Cyad to Syadtar, as they have for more than two
centuries.

With the threat of the chaos-towers failing, Lorn had at first wondered
why the use of fire wagons was not curtailed-except that such would
make no difference until a tower actually failed.  He smiles, thinking
about how Lector Abram'elth had let that slip.

In the cold morning breeze, Lorn stretches as he waits for the fire
wagon that will carry him back along the Great Northern Highway until
it joins with the Great Eastern Highway, where he will transfer to
another fire wagon to carry him back home to Cyad.  The two green
canvas bags at his feet carry uniforms and little else, save the
antique Brystan sabre, wrapped in his under tunics and Ryalth's
silver-covered book, in his smallclothes.

At the second set of columns, a good thirty cubits to Lorn's left,
stand a half score of passengers who will be travelling in the rear
compartment.  Among the brown and gray tunics are the maroon cloak of a
master crafter and a yellow cloak trimmed in purple.  The woman wearing
the yellow cloak is gray-haired and carries a leather instrument case,
possibly a sitarlyn.  Lorn is not sure of that, having been raised in
the household of a magus where the order vibrations would skew the use
of a chaos glass or even shatter it.

Boots scuff on the clean white stones of the platform.  Lorn turns to
his right and watches a heavy-set mer chanter followed by a porter and
a hand cart.  On the hand cart are three roughly cubical canvas-wrapped
objects, each about two cubits on a side.

"Here."  The mer chanter points down beside the column adjacent to the
one flanking Lorn.

The porter silently tilts the two-wheeled handcart into a upright
position, then carefully checks the three containers to ensure they
rest securely on the cart's carrying ledge.

The clean-shaven and gray-haired mer chanter in blue nods brusquely and
looks toward Lorn, taking in Lorn's cream and green uniform and the
double bars on the lancer officer's collar.  "Furlough, Captain?"

"Duty change," Lorn answers pleasantly.

The mer chanter laughs pleasantly.  "You're one of the good ones,
then."

"Good enough."

"The poor ones never make captain before they hit the Steps.  The fair
ones stay here until they get unlucky or old."  The mer chanter nods.
"Seen them come and go, one way or another."

"Are you with a clan house?"  Lorn asks, noting the fine cut of the
man's blue shimmer cloth tunic and the polished cupridium boss on the
silver belt buckle.

"Stitheth.  One of the oldest in Syadtar."

"What kinds of goods..."  Lorn lets his voice trail off, as if he were
uncertain as to whether he should even inquire.

"Durables-clays, timbers from Jakaafra, leathers, well, hides really...
all kinds-from the finest in gaitered stun lizards to bull leathers for
the most durable boots.  Dyes and polishes, lacquers..."

"All very necessary goods."  Lorn nods.  The mer chanter has been
careful in his house description-using the word the "oldest" rather
than "finest," although Lorn has few doubts that the Stitheth clan is
among the wealthier houses, since Syadtar is far from the sources of
all the goods traded by the house, and most would have to come by
horse-drawn wagons rather than by fire wagon because their bulk would
make fire wagon transport unprofitable.  "Doubtless all most profitable
in Syadtar."

"We have been fortunate," acknowledges the mer chanter  At the low
rumbling of heavy wheels on stone, Lorn glances to the west, where the
morning sun glints on the white-lacquer-like finish of the approaching
fire wagon as it nears the embarking portico.

Behind the curved glass canopy at the front of the vehicle, the two
drivers-one white-haired, the other gray-haired-wear the green tunic of
a transporter.  All drivers are former senior squad leaders in the
Mirror Lancers, something Lorn had learned at Isahl.

Eight passengers emerge from the fire wagon only one from the forward
compartment, a magus of indeterminate age who nods briefly to Lorn and
continues past the lancer officer carrying but a small duffel of white
shimmer cloth  The seven passengers from the rear compartment all wear
brown or gray, except for a woman in the yellow of an entertainer.

All the passengers vanish into the streets of Syadtar.

As Lorn and the mer chanter beside him wait, the two drivers and two
porters slowly unload crates and baskets, while a young enumerator
watches.

Then another pair of drivers appears-one bald and the other with salt
and pepper hair.  The driver with the black and gray hair begins to
walk around the fire wagon checking each of the six wheels, the
fastenings, and the array of chaos cells behind the rear compartment.

"First compartment.  Travelers westward!  Travelers westward!"
announces the bald driver.  "First compartment."

Lorn bends and lifts the two duffels, careful not to let sabre and
scabbard strike the one in his right hand.  As he walks toward the open
front compartment door, the wind carries voices from the second
platform to him.  "don't see why they get to travel first free..."

"Because half of them don't live long enough to get pensioned off,
Vorkin.  They can't take consorts with them, if they can find one, and
they never are home.  That's why.  You want to live like that?"

"Still... wasn't that bad for your uncle."

"You weren't there."

"Saw enough, I did...."

"Hush!"

A faint smile crosses Lorn's lips and vanishes.

Behind Lorn, the mer chanter directs the porter toward the cargo bay of
the fire wagon the space separating the smaller front compartment from
the larger rear one.

Lorn has to bend forward to slide the duffels under the thinly padded
curved bench seat, and he pushes them to the far side.  Then he has to
un clip his scabbarded sabre from his belt.  After setting it against
the outside wall of the compartment, he takes the rear window seat on
the left side, so that he can see ahead.

Through the cupridium-braced white oak behind his head, he feels the
rest of the goods and crates being loaded, and then the clunk of the
cargo doors being closed.

The mer chanter peers into the compartment, smiling as if in relief. 
"A bit of space here, captain.  Until Coermat for certain, anyway."  He
takes the rear-facing seat on the right side, as if to be seated as far
from the Lancer officer as possible, then stretches out his thick legs.
"Might not be so bad this time."  His words end with a yawn.

"It's better not to be cramped," Lorn agrees pleasantly.  "Closing up,
sers."  The bald driver peers into the compartment, before withdrawing
and closing the door.

"You'll pardon me, captain.  I had to do the accounts before I left,
and there wasn't much lamp oil left."  The mer chanter nods politely,
leans his head back, and closes his eyes.

The fire wagon rolls forward slowly and smoothly picks up speed.  Lorn
watches the white sunstone buildings of Syadtar pass and vanish behind
him.

He will not return to Syadtar.  That he knows.

XLIII

The fire wagon rumbles through the twilight toward Chulbyn, the town
that exists only to serve as the station for transferring passengers
and urgent freight from the fire wagons plying the Great Northern
Highway to those using the Great Eastern Highway.  Even though the
chaos cells that power the rear wheel motors are behind the second
compartment, Lorn can sense the waning of the cells' power.  This trip
will be the vehicle's last, until those cells are replaced with the
recharged cells periodically carried from Cyad to the replenishment way
stations

Across from him snores a thin senior enumerator, while the Stitheth mer
chanter sleeps quietly in the far corner of the fire wagon forward
compartment.

The fire wagon lurches ever so slightly, as if the wheels had struck
something, and then crushed it, before the faintly rumbling sounds of
normal travel resume.  For a moment, the enumerator's snores cease. But
only for a moment, Lorn reflects.

The fire wagons on the Great Northern Highway are smaller than those on
the Great Eastern Highway, for all that the travel distance from Cyad
to Chulbyn is less than a third the distance to Syadtar.  Has it always
been that way?  Leaning back in the seat that become harder and harder,
Lorn fingers a chin getting all too stubbly.

Will Cyad seem any different?  Lorn smiles.  Different it will seem,
but in what ways he does not know.  He hopes he will be able to
recognize those differences and that he can spend some time with
Ryalth.

A frown replaces the smile.  Has Myryan been able to deal with being
Ciesrt's consort?  He takes a long and slow breath.  Should he have
taken matters in hand there?  Will he ever know?  Does he want to
know?

Outside the forward compartment of the fire wagon as chaos powers the
vehicle along the gleaming white pavement of the Great Northern
Highway, the twilight deepens into night.  Inside, the enumerator
snores; the mer chanter sleeps, and Lorn ponders the days ahead.

Part IV Lorn'alt, Cyad

XLIV

The fire wagon passes between the two sets of angled whitened granite
pillars that symbolically mark the northern boundary of Cyad, the City
of Eternal Light and Prosperous Chaos, and at that moment those pillars
are half in the late afternoon sun, half in shadow.

Lorn sits in the middle of the rear-facing seat in the first
compartment.  To his left is the silent Lancer majer who had boarded
the fire wagon in Chulbyn and who has spoken to no one.  To his right
is a black-haired and sharp-nosed mer chanter almost as silent as the
majer.  Across from Lorn sits a painfully thin young woman in the pale
green of an apprentice healer, with her father by the door to her
right.  Her father even more spare than his daughter wears the
unadorned white of a magus, without the lightning bolt pin of an upper
level adept.  The magus alternates between studying the younger men in
the compartment, although his observations of Lorn are less intense, as
if he has already decided Lorn is scarcely worthy of attention.

Lorn leans back, waiting until the fire wagon completes its traverse of
the city and arrives at the main fire wagon station to west of the
Palace of Light.  His thoughts are upon Ryalth and Myryan... and upon
Jerial and his parents.  None have seen him as a Mirror Lancer
officer.

He does not look up as the chaos vehicle takes the upper Way of Far
Commerce and passes the three-story sunstone residences of the mer
chanter clan principals, small palaces on the fourth highest hill
within Cyad.  Nor do his eyes lift as the fire wagon moving smoothly
over the polished granite blocks that floor all thoroughfares in Cyad,
glides by the exchange halls that dwarf all but the Palace of Light and
the structures that comprise the Quarter of the Magi.

"You're from Cyad, then, Captain?"  asks the majer, addressing Lorn for
the first time on the entire journey of more than two hundred kays from
Chulbyn.

"Yes, scr."

The majer nods.  "I thought so.  You've seen it before, many times."

In the seat facing Lorn, the magus lifts his eyebrows, and he tilts his
head, as if viewing Lorn for the first time.

"Yes, scr."  Lorn nods politely to the majer, but the other officer
relapses into silence.

A time later, when the fire wagon slows to a stop, Lorn eases himself
erect.  After the driver opens the door to the front compartment, Lorn
nods to the magus.  "Good day, scr."

"And to you, Captain."  The thin man turns his head and murmurs,
"Carefully, Kilenya."  He slides out the open door, then turns to offer
his hand to his daughter.  The young healer apprentice looks neither at
Lorn nor at her father as she takes a small green bag from under the
seat and slips from the compartment.

The lancer majer eases his sabre from beside him, takes a single kit
bag, and leaves as silently as he had entered so long before, offering
a brusque nod to Lorn.  In turn, the sharp-faced mer chanter inclines
his head to Lorn.

"Go ahead," Lorn says with a smile.  "I've a great deal under the
seat."

"For your courtesy."  The mer chanter nods once more, and slips from
the fire wagon

Lorn reclaims his sabre and clips it in place before sliding out the
two bags that hold his kit.  Once on the platform under the granite
pillars of the portico, he takes a slow breath of sea-perfumed air, air
far damper than he has felt in three long years.  He steps closer to
the nearest pillar and sets down his gear, waiting for the others to
leave the pillared portico, watching as the provincial mage and his
daughter take the first waiting carriage, and the majer the second. The
mer chanter talks with a white-haired enumerator, both standing by a
wagon waiting on the far side of the platform, presumably for some
goods that will be unloaded from the center compartment of the fire
wagon

Lorn picks up his gear and crosses the narrow way to the carriage-hire
lane, where he addresses the first driver of the pair of carriages
remaining.  "The Road of Perpetual Light, at the crossing of the Tenth
Way."

"Yes, scr."

Lorn opens the carriage door and sets the two duffels that contain his
kit on the floor, then adds, "Straight down to the Third Harbor Way,
and then out."  He grins.  "It's faster that way."

"Yes, serAs you wish, scr."  The driver bobs his head nervously with
each word he utters.

Lorn slides into the uncovered carriage and closes the half-door,
settling back into the upholstered seat and taking another long breath
of the moist air of Cyad.  For a moment, he glances up at the thin
white clouds seem to hang motionless.

As the two horses pull the carriage southward, Lorn, studies the
harbor, the white granite piers that hold near-on a dozen vessels, more
than two thirds long-haulers with stern ensigns of either Hamor or
Nordla.  He sees but a single white-hulled fire ship and two ships with
the blue of Cyadoran houses, and he wonders if one might be a ship in
which Ryalor House holds an interest.  He laughs softly, telling
himself he has no claim on Ryalor House or its assets.  None
whatsoever.

Except... he shakes his head.

The chill of a chaos-glass screeing him comes over him, as it has
intermittently since he went to Isahl, although this imaging is warmer.
His father?  The feel is similar.  He shakes his head.  He must work
that out- and somehow reconcile his father to Ryalth.

But can he even work matters out with Ryalth?  Without her suffering
for his transgression of having been a student magus?  Will she even
consider it?  And what of Myryan?  Is there anything he can do to
remedy her consorting with Ciesrt?  Or did he have but one chance where
he has already failed?

His eyes do not truly see the City of Light as the carriage conveys him
toward the harbor and then eastward beneath and past the Palace of
Light, for he wrestles with all the questions seething behind the
composed expression upon his visage.

"Scr?  This corner?"  asks the coachman for hire.  "Is this where you
wished to be?"

Lorn straightens, glances toward the northwest corner, toward the
four-story dwelling where he was raised.  The house is larger than he
recalls, a dwelling that would be a mer chanter palace in Syadtar.
"Yes."

"Three coppers, scr.  It was half the city."

Lorn offers four, and opens the carriage half-door, easily lifting the
two duffels, and instinctively managing to keep the sabre from striking
anything as he alights.  By the time he has carried his kit to the
front and formal gate of the house, Jerial is standing on the lower
steps, well before the green ceramic privacy screen that protects the
main entrance overlooking the Road of Perpetual Light.

His composure shatters into a broad smile.

As his boots touch the steps beyond the gate, Jerial shakes her head.
"I felt you were coming.  Then I wasn't sure.  You look so... removed,
so Lancer-like-I almost didn't recognize you."  Then she smiles, and
for a moment, the formal facade of healer fades.  "I was hoping it
wouldn't be long after your last scroll."

Lorn drops his kit and hugs her, amazed once more at how small she
truly is, for she has always seemed so much larger.

For but an instant, she clings to him before deftly slipping out of his
embrace.  "You're stronger."

Lorn understands.  "I hope so.  I tried to follow what you said."  He
pauses.  "Where's Myryan?"

"She is consorted... father wrote you, I know...."

He shakes his head.  "I knew.  I... Myryan..."  He shrugs.  "What you
don't see is sometimes hard to picture."

"She and Ciesrt have a dwelling.  You can see her in the morning.  She
spends the afternoons at the infirmary."

Lorn holds back the frown.  He understands that message as well.

"Father used the chaos-glass, but he and mother are still waiting
upstairs."

"Decorum," Lorn says dryly.

"Always," responds Jerial, her tone as dry as Lorn's has been.

Lorn picks up the duffels once more, and the two walk up the lower
steps and then around the decorative tiled bricks of the privacy screen
and into the lower entry.  Side by side they ascend the marble steps of
the formal staircase.  Only the servants' quarters are on the lower
level-where breezes are rare.

Lorn's mother-her once-mahogany hair now almost entirely white- stands
at the back of the second-level entrance hall.  Beside her is Lorn's
father, in shimmer cloth white, the bolts of chaos glowing on the
breast of his tunic.

"It's so good to see you."  Nyryah's smile is shy, if warm.  She does
not move toward her son.

"It's good to be here."  Lorn sets down his kit, steps forward, and
hugs her firmly.  Her embrace is firm, but without the strength he has
recalled.

When Lorn steps back, Kien'elth inclines his head to his son the Mirror
Lancer captain.  "Welcome home."

"Thank you."

"It's good to see you, Lorn.  You have grown... in more ways than one."
Kien'elth's smile is both welcoming and strained.

"I've tried."  Lorn's smile is practiced and easy.  "The Mirror Lancers
make you work and think."

"Work, certainly.  You have a few more muscles," offers Nyryah.

"I'm as scrawny as ever," Lorn protests.

"No, you're not," Jerial counters.  "Mother would know."

Lorn shrugs helplessly.

"I would like a few words with Lorn."  Kien'elth smiles, first at his
son, and then at his elder daughter, and then his consort.  "But a few
words, and you may have him back."

"I will check the dinner," Nyryah says.  "We may be able to find some
tarts, or a pear apple pie."

"Mother..."  Jerial smiles despite the slight exasperation in her
voice.

"Lancer captain or not, I doubt that Lorn has lost his taste for
sweets... of all kinds," Nyryah says firmly.  "He does take after his
father."

Lorn can't help but grin at his mother.

Even Kien shakes his head ruefully, if barely.

Lorn carries his bags up the second flight of stairs, leaving them in
the third level foyer.  He un clips the sabre and lays it across the
green bags, then follows Kien'elth up the inner steps and to the study
on the uppermost level.  With an inner sigh, Lorn notes the slight
shuffle in his father's walk and the thinning of his white hair.

The senior magus closes the study door before making his way to the
chair behind the polished white oak table-desk.  He sits carefully and
not quite heavily.

Lorn takes the chair closest to the desk, careful not to let his boots
scuff the polished wood of the legs.  He waits as his father studies
him in the comparative dimness of the paneled study.  The sun-gold eyes
have lost none of the intensity Lorn recalls.

"I said you had grown in more ways than one.  I think you understand to
what I refer," Kien states.

"Yes, scr."

"It is a dangerous course.  Few complete it."

Lorn shrugs, understanding all too well why his father will not mention
Lorn's growing power and control of chaos.  "I've followed what Myryan
and Jerial have advised as well, for my health, of course."

"They would know, but best you not mention that again, even to me."

"Yes, scr."  Lorn forces himself to recall that he is back in the City
of Light, where every statement may be truth read and every movement
caught in a screeing glass like the one which rests, covered, on his
father's desk.  He frowns, as his eyes study the light amber of the
wood which frames the glass.

Kien follows his eyes.  "Yes, it's only a year or so old.  The old one
vanished when I traveled to Fyrad last year."

"That's odd," Lorn says.

"Most odd," reflects his father.  "I packed it when I left Fyrad, but
when I unpacked here, it was gone."

Lorn nods slowly.  He is indeed back in Cyad.

"With no sense of it in a year, I doubt its fate will ever be known."
Kien leans forward in the chair and studies his son.  "You may recall
Alyiakal?"

"The lancer emperor?"

"The lancer-magus emperor.  Any Mirror Lancer who has such talents may
well turn Cyador over to the barbarians."

Lorn waits.

"I'm aging, Lorn, and I am too fond of pontificating.  Yet I would ask
that you bear with me and not ask any questions."  At those words,
Kien'elth turns in his chair so that he does not look at the lancer
captain and cannot even see Lorn.  "All who are of the Magi'i are bound
to serve chaos, and thus limited by chaos.  Those who are lancers are
restricted because Cyador can but support limited companies of the
Mirror Lancers with fire lances  A senior lancer officer who could
muster chaos would not be so bound or restricted, and both the senior
commanders of the Mirror Lancers and the most senior Lectors are bound
to find and assure such never become senior officers.  None speak of
this; none who are not first level adepts or lectors know of such."

Lorn remains silent in the pause that follows his father's words.
Technically, Kien'elth has not addressed his son, yet he has risked
much even to speak as he has.

Kien turns back to face Lorn.  "Some from Cyador romanticize the
freedom of the barbarians."  His white eyebrows lift.  "Would you be
one of those?"

"No.  Once I asked myself about that freedom."  Lorn laughs harshly.
"That was before I got to know them."

Kien nods.  "A man free of all restraints is a slave to chance and
order.  The barbarians are slaves to chance, even while they proclaim
their freedom."

"They're dangerous, and there seem to be more of them every year," Lorn
points out.

"I suspect it has seemed that way for many generations," Kien says.
"Cyador endures, and the barbarians dash themselves in vain against the
lancers."

Lorn nods, but he recalls Jostyn and Cyllt-and others who had shattered
beneath such vain dashing.

"You'll be here for a season?"

"Five eight days

"Good.  We'll get to see you."  Kien smiles.  "So will a number of
young women, I suspect."

Lorn shrugs, looking appropriately sheepish.

The older man rises.  "I will not keep you from your sister and your
mother.  Otherwise we both will hear of it."

With a smile, Lorn stands.

"We will see you at dinner?"

"Of course.  Where else could I get pear apple cream tarts?"  Lorn's
smile expands into a broad grin.

Kien shakes his head as Lorn turns.

Outside the study, Lorn glances through the portico columns that ring
the open sides of the upper level, his eyes checking the southwest and
the harbor, though he cannot see the building that houses the Clanless
Traders... and Ryalor House.  After a moment, he walks slowly down to
the second level, toward his own quarters, if they can truly be said to
be such after his three-year absence.

In the foyer, he looks for his bags, but someone has moved them, and
then continues toward the rear, slipping through the open door.  His
bags have been set beside the wardrobe beyond the archway to the
sleeping alcove.  The sabre lies across the desk.  The chamber has not
changed, except in the feel of disuse and the lack of small items.
There are no spare coppers in the small tray in the corner of the desk,
nor any paper in the open-topped white oak box beside the empty
inkwell.

He glances at the bags, then offers a crooked smile to the emptiness of
the room before turning and walking back toward Jerial's door.

"It's open.  You can come in, Lorn."

Jerial sits behind the desk.  She replaces the cupridium-tipped pen in
the holder and stoppers the inkwell, her slender fingers quick and
deft.  The piercing blue eyes turn on her brother, and both narrow and
finely defined black eyebrows arch into a question.

"A warning about not repeating the mistakes of my past," Lorn
answers.

"Were they really mistakes?"

"In father's eyes, I suspect."

"There was more, but I won't press."

"Thank you."  Lorn slides into the armless chair at the corner of the
table desk that could have been a match to the one in his quarters.
"How are matters with you?"

"For a healer without a consort... as can be expected."  Jerial shrugs.
"I'm good enough, and I can always be counted upon to be there.  For
that, all I receive is enormous condescension, but the pressure to be
consorted isn't as bad."  She displays a crooked smile.  "I'm older now
than most of the junior adepts who need consorts, and those who are
left don't wish a sharp-tongued healer."

"Especially one with brothers such as yours?"  Lorn's tone is idle.

"Vernt is most accepted."

"I would have thought so."

"And a lancer who fights the barbarians is respected."

"In short, I'm expected to die young and respectably, and Vernt will
carry on."  Lorn's tone is totally without bitterness, as though he
states a fact so obvious that there is not a doubt of its veracity.

"No.  You are expected to act heroically and effectively."  The
eyebrows arch a second time.  "Isn't that what lancer captains do?"

"I'm only half what's expected, then."  Lorn shrugs.  "I'm not terribly
heroic."

"I imagine you are very effective."

"The majer said something along those lines," Lorn admits.

"Good."  Jerial pauses.  "I presume you will offer some observations on
the barbarians and the Grass Hills at dinner."

"Yes.  And how the lancers serve Cyador and the Magi'i."

"That cream might be too heavy."

Lorn keeps the smile from his lips, but not his eyes, though he could
have done that as well.

Jerial laughs softly.  "I forget how well you deliver the
outrageous."

"It's not outrageous.  The Mirror Lancers and the fire lances provided
by the Magi'i are all that keep the barbarians of the north from
turning Cyador into a wasteland."  Looking perfectly earnest, Lorn
squares his shoulders.

"Well... Vernt might believe you.  If you began with the fire lances

Lorn's eyes catch Jerial's.

"He wants to be like Father, Lorn."  Her healer's voice carries a trace
of sadness.  "He does not know Father."

"I'll be very careful... and very cheerful."

"That would be best.  Mother is still most observant."  Lorn nods.
"What about Myryan?"

"She is handling Ciesrt as well as possible.  Your words to father gave
her some more time."

"You're afraid it wasn't enough?"  Lorn studies Jerial without seeming
to do so, almost leaning back in the armless chair.  "She doesn't talk
to me.  Not really."

"I'll see her tomorrow," he promises.

"That would be good.  Mother insisted, quietly, that you not face
Ciesrt as soon as you arrived."

"She is not happy with the consorting."

"Neither she nor father saw any other choices.  Myryan could not follow
my path."  Jerial's smile is tight.  "I feared that."

"You did what you could."

"I need some time to unpack."  Lorn stands and stretches.  "And to wash
up before dinner.  It was a long ride from Syadtar."

"And think?"

"That, too."  He turns toward the door.  "Lorn?"

"Yes."

"When you need them... there are blues for a senior enumerator in your
wardrobe, under the winter waterproof.  I thought your friend needed,
shall we say, advancement."

"Thank you."  Lorn nods to Jerial, then steps out into the open
corridor, walking slowly back to a chamber that is his, and is not.

There he opens the first green bag and begins to place his uniforms in
the wardrobe, alongside the enumerator blues.  A faint smile curls his
lips.

After the clothes are unpacked, and he has slipped the silver volume
into hiding with the smallclothes, he takes out the Brystan sabre he
has carried across Cyador, resharpened and worked into shape, sensing
the faint order-death sense of the worked and polished iron beneath the
scabbard.  He has taken one liberty with the blade, a significant one,
for now the tip of the blade is edged on both sides, if only for a span
on the heavy-backed side.  His senses tell him that much of a true
point will not weaken it, and for what he has in mind, he may need to
thrust with it.

He can hold the iron without burning his hands, but there is no reason
to, not when Vernt or his father might sense it.  He smiles.  He is,
after all, entitled to a souvenir of his efforts against the
barbarians, although he has kept its presence hidden from all the
lancers at Isahl, and will from his family.  Even should his father
scree the iron, Kien'elth will say nothing directly.

Once he has folded the green bags and put them in the back of the
wardrobe, he pulls off his boots, and then the uniform he has worn for
too many days.  There is a robe on one of the wardrobe pegs, which he
slips on, before heading out the door toward the bathing chamber.

Once he is washed thoroughly and shaved, he returns to his room and
lies across the bed.  What can he do about Myryan... and Ryalth?

He does not ponder either long, for sleep claims him.

A gentle rapping on the door frame brings him awake, and he bolts
upright.

"Dinner is almost ready," Jerial says from the other side of the closed
oak door.  "I thought you'd like to know."

Lorn has to clear his throat before he can reply.  "Thank you.  I dozed
off."

"I thought you might."

There is silence, and Lorn can sense that she has slipped away to let
him ready himself.

After hurriedly dressing, Lorn leaves his chambers and walks down the
steps to the smaller, and warmer, inner dining area on the second
level, his boots silent on the marble of the steps.

Even so, one of the servants nods to him as he nears.  He does not
recognize the brunette with the round face and the braided brown hair.
"I'm sorry.  I'm Lorn.  I don't believe we've met."

"Sylirya, scr.  I came here a season after you left."  Sylirya keeps
her eyes properly downcast.

"How have you found it?"

"Your family is most kind, serA better home I could not have found."
She moistens her lips.  "I must help cook, scr...."

Lorn smiles cheerfully.  "Do what you must."

He waits until she turns, then waits again as he hears his father's
heavy steps on the stairs.

The magus whose hair has turned from shimmering silver to a flatter
white over almost four years nods to his son.  "You're still the first
to the table."  He looks around, then at Lorn.  "Is Jerial here?  You
were talking to someone."

"The new servant-Sylirya."

"She's scarcely new, Lorn.  It's been nearly three years for her, and
for Kysia, and more than a year for Quyal-she's the new cook."

"What happened to Elthya?"

"Her mother fell ill, and when she went back to her town-I've forgotten
the name-a widower she'd known when they were children asked her to be
his consort."  Kien spread his hands.  "So we had to get a new cook.
Quyal's as good as Elthya, but her cooking's different, more...
western, I'd say.  More spice."

The two men walk through the foyer and along the corridor to the dining
area, where they stand by the door, waiting for the others.

"Too spicy?"  asks Lorn.

"I did ask for a little less seasoning," his father admits.

They turn as Jerial approaches.

"Lorn was here, first, I'd wager," Jerial observes.

"Before me," their father confirms.

"Vernt should be here before long," Jerial says.  "I heard him come in,
but he'll wait for mother."

As she speaks, Lorn hears steps, and Vernt and his mother appear.  Like
his father, Vernt wears the white shimmer cloth of an adept of the
Magi'i, but without the lightning emblem.  He has also added a
short-trimmed beard, sandy-colored like his hair.

"The lancer has returned," the younger mage says.  "Welcome back."

"Thank you."  Lorn inclines his head.  "It's good to see everyone."

"Can we eat?"  Kien rolls his eyes.

"Of course, dear," responds Nyryah.  "Why don't you just go in and sit
down?"

Lorn follows his father.  While Kien sits at the end of the table with
his back to the window, Lorn takes the place to his father's right.
Jerial sits beside Lorn, and Nyryah seats herself at the end opposite
her consort.  Vernt takes the place across from Jerial and Lorn.

Sylirya eases a large crock before Kien, setting a ladle beside it.
Another woman brings in two trays of bread-sun-nut and a dark rye.
"Thank you, Quyal."  Nyryah nods at the second server.  "What-" begins
Kien.

"Dinner is a beef stew.  Quyal didn't know Lorn was coming," interjects
Nyryah quickly.

"None of us knew when he was coming," adds Jerial.  Lorn shrugs.

"Just serve yourself, dear," suggests Lorn's mother to Kien.

"I will.  I will."  The older magus shakes his head.

Vernt offers the tray of nut bread to his mother, then takes two slices
and sets them on his plate, before passing the tray across to Jerial.

"You look good."  Vernt smiles happily at Lorn, then at the tray Jerial
holds.  "I still remember how you sneaked extras on the sun-nut bread.
You'd pass it up to begin with, and then take three slices later."

Lorn grins easily.  "Why not?  You always tried to grab two right at
first, and you always got caught.  Now you can do it, and no one says
anything."

"After all these years," Kien grumbles good-naturedly, "you two are
still at it."

Jerial laughs.  "They're brothers.  Did you expect that to change?"

"I'm getting older.  I could hope."  Kien slides the crock toward Lorn,
who serves Jerial and them himself, before passing it.

Vernt serves Nyryah and then himself, while Lorn pours a maroon wine
for everyone.

"Careful with that Fhynyco," Kien tells Lorn.  "It's better than
Byrdyn."

"As good as Alafraan?"

"Alafraan?  Now he's heard of wines we don't know."  Kien shakes his
head.  "Boy goes off, and now he's a lancer who knows wines."

Both Jerial and Lorn laugh.

"I wouldn't," Lorn says, "except that one of the officers came from a
vintner's family in Escadr."

"At least he admits it," adds Nyryah.  "Now... start eating before it
all gets cold."

Lorn needs little urging, and stew or not, the first mouthful tells him
it is the best meal he has eaten since he left three years earlier.

"What is Isahl really like?"  Jerial asks after Lorn has eaten several
mouthfuls and half of the slice of nut bread he had slipped onto his
plate.

Lorn swallows.  "It's hotter in the summer, colder in the winter, and
windier all the time.  Outside of the outpost, there are no more than a
score of families in the valley, and fewer than that in the adjoining
valleys.  The only trees are scrub cedars, and bushes..."  Lorn's
description is as accurate as he can make it.  "and everything has
walls.  Even the herders have sod walls around their holds."

"I wouldn't want to be there."  Vernt offers a twisted smile.  "It's
too bad he can't tell that to some of the student mages."

"They wouldn't believe me."  Lorn shrugs.  "I wouldn't have believed
me."

A slight chill passes over the room, and Lorn and his father exchange
glances.  Lorn takes another bite of stew, noting the minute nods
between his mother and Jerial.  Someone is using a chaos glass.  To see
if Lorn is indeed with family?  Or to check up on Vernt or his
father?

"What will you do while you're here?"  asks Nyryah quickly.

"See you, visit friends, enjoy good food, and rest.  All the things you
can't do out in the Hills of Endless Grass."

"And then... ?"  Vernt inquires.

"I'm off to my next post.  In Geliendra.  I've been told I'll have a
company."  Lorn shrugs.  "In the Mirror Lancers, you find out when you
get there."  He takes a small swallow of the Fhynyco, stronger and
smoother than Byrdyn, then helps himself to more of the stew.

"And after that?"  Vernt persists.  "Or do you know?"

"I could but guess."  Lorn takes another bite of the stew before
continuing.  "If I make overcaptain, or sub-majer, I could be the
second-in-command somewhere, or head a port installation... or..."  He
lets the words trail off.

"Seasons enough to worry about that," says Kien.  "Best we enjoy the
season at hand."  He smiles at Lorn, and then at Nyryah.

"And you," she replies to the look of her consort, "are like your
sorts, wanting to know what sweets follow?"

"There is little wrong with that," counters the older magus.

Nyryah inclines her head to Sylirya, who slips away from the table, to
return with a shallow bowl that she sets before Kien.  Then the serving
girl slips smaller porcelain bowls, fringed in gold, before each family
member before retreating to the archway where she waits.

"You will have to do with dried pear apples and sweet brown sauce,"
Nyryah tells Lorn.

"I can manage that."  Lorn chuckles.  "I never saw pear apples in
Isahl, or Syadtar, either."

"What is Syadtar like?"  Jerial asks.  "Is it dirty with narrow
streets, like a barbarian town?"

Lorn shakes his head.  "It's like any other town I've seen in Cyador.
Granite and sunstone buildings, clean tile roofs, wide paved streets,
houses like the smaller ones here in Cyad."  He shrugs.  "Except for
the size of the buildings and how few there are compared to Cyad, the
towns I've seen all are pretty much alike.  That's until you get to the
grasslands and the herders' holdings out in the Grass Hills."

"I don't think I'd like that," ventures Jerial.

Lorn senses he is being watched, but as he watches, never looking
overtly, he can see no one.  Nor is the feeling like that of being
watched in a glass, as he has felt with his father, and, occasionally,
at other times- as had happened earlier at dinner.  Being watched, in
his parents' home?  Being watched by other Magi'i, in a glass, that he
can understand.  But who else would care?

He reaches for the pear apples a smile still upon his lips.

XLV

A raw winter wind whips off the Great Western Ocean and across the city
of Cyad, bringing a chill that belies the bright mid-morning sun set in
the cloudless green-blue sky.  Wearing but his winter white uniform,
trimmed in green, and white leather gloves, and without the sabre, Lorn
walks quickly eastward on the walkway of the Road of Perpetual Light,
stepping past the First Score Way.  The carry-bag in his left hand is
gray- something that could be carried by a lancer, a tradesman, or a
mer chanter  In it is the set of blue shimmer cloth enumerator
garments.

The dwelling where Jerial has directed Lorn is still farther to the
east, almost out of the city.  Lorn hurries, because he wishes to
arrive at midmorning-when Ciesrt will be at his tasks in the Quarter of
the Magi'i.

When he reaches the Twenty-Third Way, Lorn pauses, readjusting the
white dress officer's cap, as he mentally reviews the description
provided by Jerial and compares it to the dwellings to his right.  The
two-story dwelling is of green glazed brick, with a blue tile roof, set
in a slight hollow between two larger dwellings, blocked partly from
the cooling ocean breezes.  The privacy screen is of blue and green
tiles, with a time-faded inset golden lily in its center.

He steps up to the ledge on the left side of the privacy screen and
pulls on the green silken cord to ring the bell.

After a long moment, he hears steps, and the viewing shutter is un slit
"Lorn!"  Myryan rushes out the door and around the screen.  She hugs
her brother tightly and buries her head against his chest.  "You're
here!  You came!"

He has to drop the carry-bag to return the embrace.

After the initial exclamation and hug, almost as suddenly, Myryan steps
back and looks down.  "I suppose consorted healers aren't supposed to
do that."  Her smile is partly sheepish, partly something Lorn cannot
identify.  "But you were out fighting the barbarians, and you came back
safely, and you are my brother."

Lorn is conscious of just how thin and frail she appears, tall as she
is, even in the loose-fitting healer greens.  He can sense no chaos
about her, no sickness... yet there is something.  Around her is the
faint scent of trilia and erhenflower, a combination much gentler than
erhenflower alone, and not as overpoweringly sweet as trilia alone.

"You must come in."  She bends as if to pick up his bag.  "I've got
it."  Lorn is quicker and has it in hand before she half-starts the
movement.

"Same old Lorn.  Do you let anyone do anything for you?"

"Sometimes."

"Ha!  Tell me when."  She doesn't wait for an answer, but walks around
the ceramic privacy screen and through the still open front door.  Lorn
follows with his carry-bag.

Beyond the front door is a small tile-floored foyer scarcely four
cubits square with arches leading in three directions.  Myryan leads
Lorn to the left, into a chamber perhaps ten cubits long and six wide.
The walls have been freshly plastered and painted in a green-tinted,
off-white color, and the floor tiles recently re grouted

Three narrow and shuttered windows grace the outside front wall, their
lower sills two cubits above the polished but worn green ceramic tile
floor.  A narrow set of shelves stands between the left end of the
windows and the corner, bare except for a single sculpted sunstone
statuette of a magus looking up at a single step.  In the other window
corner is a waist-high circular table holding an oil lamp that had once
been in Myryan's chambers.  Facing the window is a settee upholstered
in faded blue.  To its left stands another table, of darker wood,
holding a blue glass lamp.  To its right, between the settee and the
window table, is a straight-backed oak chair.  The last piece of
furniture in the room is a low padded stool set before the middle
window.

Myryan steps to the windows, and one after the other, opens the
shutters to let in the light.  She turns and gestures around the small
room.  "This will have to do.  We only have the one sitting room, and
no portico."  She stands by the padded stool and faces the settee.

Lorn sets down the bag and takes the straight-backed white oak chair
that, from its patina, is probably older than either of them.  Myryan
settles onto the stool.  "When did you get back?"

"Last night."  He smiles crookedly.  "Jerial suggested that my arriving
late in the evening at your door might not have been well-received.  So
I came this morning."  He does not mention that their parents had
offered no guidance, except indirectly through Jerial.

"Jerial never cared that much for Ciesrt."  Myryan smiles wanly.

"She didn't offer any judgments."

"Does she need to?"  Myryan's tone of voice is wry, much like their
mother's can be.

"Jerial does things her own way," Lorn answers.

"She always has.  I don't see that changing."

"How are you doing?"

"I'm still working as a healer."  Her amber eyes sparkle for a moment.
"And trying to turn this place into something respectable.  All the
walls were dark blue."

"With large gold lilies painted on them?"

"Small faded yellow lilies.  Everywhere."  Myryan laughs.  "It was the
best we could do.  Ciesrt didn't want us to live with our parents, and
I didn't want to live with his.  So..."

"Junior second level adepts don't make that much."

"You're kind, Lorn.  Third level.  He says he'll make lower second this
summer when the Lectors review all the thirds."

Lorn considers the dwelling-modest by the standards of where they grew
up, but far from modest even compared to Ryalth's quarters... assuming
Ryalth has not found larger accommodations suited to the success of
Ryalor House.

Myryan follows his eyes.  "We had help.  Kharl'elth and father... and
someone else."

"Someone else?"  Lorn does frown.

Myryan shrugs, almost helplessly.  "I thought it might have been you.
Like the healer pin.  There was a deposit made in an account at the
Exchange in my name... as much as father and Kharl promised.  I told
Ciesrt that it came from mother's family.  He just nodded."

Lorn could see Ciesrt nodding, accepting what he could not understand,
and passing through life without considering anything beyond the
Quarter of the Magi'i.  "You have no idea?"

Myryan shakes her head.  "I kept the golds for almost a season, but
there was never any hint of anything from anyone.  Finally... well... I
found the house.  Tyrsal helped me, posed as a relative.  We've only
been here a season."

"You're happier here."

Myryan smiles.  "Much happier.  I've done some work outside, but I
can't wait to start on the garden.  The soil's good, and I can grow
some of the better herbs, I think.  And Jerial commissioned a bed and
armoire for us.  I don't know how she did..."

Lorn raises his eyebrows.

"Well... she didn't have to..."

"She made you promise not to tell, right?"

Myryan nods.  "You won't, will you?"

"Chaos-light, no.  What does Ciesrt think about all this?"

"He's pleased we have our own dwelling.  None of the other thirds
do."

"I'm glad you do."

"What about you?"  she asks.

"I have a little less than five eight days before I have to leave and
report to Geliendra.  You'll have time to fill me in."  He smiles.  "On
everything.  Almost everything," he quickly adds.

"Geliendra?"  She frowns.  "Be careful.  The Magi'i are doing something
there.  I overheard Kharl... but he stopped when he saw Ciesrt and
me."

"He is the Kharl'elth, and still the Second Magus?"

"Very powerful, and he makes sure the family knows it."  Myryan's mouth
crinkles into an ironic smile.  "He spends all his time in the Palace.
That's the way Ciesrt talks about it."

"Did you hear any more about Geliendra?"

"I didn't hear much.  I wouldn't have heard that, but I'm not that
comfortable when we go there, and..."  She offers an embarrassed smile
this time.

"You used your chaos-order senses?"

She nods, then adds, "All I heard was something about the importance of
the trial period, and the interest of the Emperor.  It was at a
gathering, and he was talking to another of the Magi'i.  It wasn't
Chyenfel, but we were never introduced-I wasn't.  Kharl took Ciesrt and
introduced him."  Myryan's face hardens slightly.  "Since I wasn't
introduced, I didn't ask who he was.  I wish I had."

"It doesn't matter."  Lorn means it.  The information's value is in the
content and the speaker, not the listener.

Myryan brushes back a strand of curly black hair and shifts her weight
on the padded stool.  "Sometimes, when I'm there, I feel more like a
settee or a table than a person."

"At Ciesrt's parents' dwelling?"

"They want us to have children, and she's always asking me when she can
expect a grandchild."  Myryan's lips twist.  "I tell her that it's in
the hands of chaos.  It is, but not the way she thinks."

"Jerial?"

Myryan nods.  "She knows a lot.  Sometimes that's helpful, and she
didn't even ask why."

"Does Ciesrt suspect?"

Myryan laughs gently.  "He's order-blind, like Vernt.  Maybe that's why
they get along so well."

"I didn't know they had become friends," Lorn says easily.  "Friends? I
don't know.  When they talk, they understand each other, but they don't
go out of their way."  The healer lifts her shoulders, then drops them.
 "That's with anyone-both of them are like that."

"Vernt asked a question or two at dinner last night," Lorn says.

"He probably had to force himself to do that."

"Ciesrt... does he talk much?  To you, I mean?"

"He tells me everything he can about his day, and about how many fire
wagon cells he charged, and why the cells on the bigger fire wagons are
different, and how important what he and the others do is for Cyad." 
She laughs softly.  "I listen.  He means well, and, in his own way, he
does want me to be happy."

"I'm glad for that."  Lorn turns in the chair.

"That chair is hard.  You could sit on the settee."

He grins and stands, stretching.  "I'm still a little stiff from the
travel.  Not used to sitting in a fire wagon for days."

"You... the man who could out wait anyone?"

"Only if I have a reason," he points out.  "Otherwise, I have trouble
sitting still."

"That I find hard to believe, my dear brother."

Lorn rolls his eyes.

"I won't ask about other... matters."  Myryan stands.  "The kitchen
isn't much, but I need to eat something, and so do you."  She uncoils
herself from the stool, standing as tall as Lorn, and motions for him
to follow.

The kitchen has also been replastered and smells fresh and clean,
despite the age of the dwelling.  Somehow, the spare setting suits
Myryan, Lorn reflects, watching her extract a wedge of cheese from the
watercooler.

Deftly, his sister slices the hard cheese into finger-sized wedges, yet
Lorn can sense her reluctance with the knife, and her relief when she
wipes it clean and replaces it in the wooden holder quickly.

"The knife bothers you."

"Most healers have trouble with knives, even cupridium ones, but
they're not as bad as the iron ones."

"The iron-"

"It's not the iron.  I can hold iron, any kind of iron, and it doesn't
bother me."

Lorn frowns.  "I'd think... this can't be new."

Myryan laughs.  "New?  It's been a problem since the firstborn.  The
Magi'i don't mention it because we're just healers, not wielders of
chaos."  Lorn holds in the wince he feels.

"Take some of the cheese.  You're pale.  I'm a healer, and I can sense
it."  Myryan breaks off a chunk of the slightly stale bread and thrusts
that at him as well.

"I didn't come to take food."

"I know.  You came, and I'm glad."  Myryan chews the bread and cheese
before speaking.  "Is this all right?  I like bread and cheese.  Ciesrt
doesn't.  He wants a hot breakfast and dinner.  So I have the cheese at
mid-day."

"Bread and cheese like this are fine," Lorn reassures her.  "They're
not at all like what lancers get, even lancer officers.  I didn't say
much about food last night, but I think anything in Cyad would taste
wonderful.  This is better cheese."  He raises his eyebrows.  "What
kind?"

"It's from the east, someplace called Worrak, I think."

"And the eastern barbarians actually make good cheese?"

"They're not all like those in the north," Myryan counters.

"No matter what father says?"  Lorn smiles.

"Oh..."  She pauses.  "Father is beginning to look old.  Didn't you see
it?  Sometimes, I wonder."

"His hair is white, not silver.  But it will happen to us all," Lorn
says.

"But it's so sudden.  Last year, it was silver."

Lorn frowns.

"There's nothing I can do.  Mother's doing what she can.  I hope she
doesn't try too hard."

"Too hard?"

"She's a healer, not just a mother.  If she puts too much into helping
father, then..."  Myryan looks at Lorn.

"It could hurt her."

"It could.  It will."  Myryan wraps the cheese and replaces it in the
cooler, then puts the bread in the keeper.  She looks at the sand glass
on the pedestal.  "I don't want to go... but I'd better... they expect
me."

"I'll keep stopping by."

"I hope so.  You are my brother."  Her smile warms him, but it fades
too quickly as she continues, "I won't ask about other things, Lorn.  I
hope you work them out, but I shouldn't know.  We have dinner at least
once a week with Ciesrt's parents."

He nods, understanding too well.  "Thank you.  I hope so, too."

"I'm going to have to leave for the infirmary.  Is there anything I can
do before I go?"

Lorn wants to laugh.  Anything she can do?  He is the one who should
have acted.

"Lorn..."  Myryan's amber eyes catch Lorn's.  "You did what you could.
It's better this way.  I can accept Ciesrt."

Accept.  Lorn does not like the word.

"Would you mind if I just sat for a while in the garden?"  he finally
asks.  "I need some quiet.  I'll leave from there."

"You could stay here."

"I think I'd like the garden."  Lorn does not wish to risk being seen
in a glass within her walls without her present, for several reasons.

"If that's what you'd like."  She smiles once more.  "You've always
needed some time apart from others.  I'm glad that hasn't changed."

"I don't always want that distance, Myryan."  He steps forward and hugs
her.  "I just can't change things.  Not now."

She returns the hug, then steps back, and he wonders if he has changed
so much that she must hang onto a few old mannerisms to assure herself
that he remains the Lorn she knew.

After reclaiming the carry-bag and waving from the garden gate as
Myryan walks out to the Road of Perpetual Light, Lorn steps back into
the garden, finding the arbor.

Myryan may guess what he is doing, but she does not know, and one arbor
is much like another in a screeing glass.

Some time after he senses that she is far enough eastward of the house
that she cannot sense anything he may do, he steps into the corner of
the arbor where the gray winter leaves of the grape are thick and will
shield him from any eyes that may peer from the adjoining dwellings
that rise above the blocks of the gray stone walls that enclose the
rear garden of Myryan's dwelling.

Once he has changed into the blues and boots that he had carried in the
bag, he stretches, then readjusts the tunic.  The blues feel strange on
him... as if he had outgrown them.  He checks the fit, and the
tailoring is perfect.  With a snort, he smiles.

He emerges from the arbor as a senior enumerator, carry-bag in hand,
and walks through the outside garden gate, carefully latching it behind
him, and then heads along the Road of Perpetual Light, westward back
toward the center of Cyad.

At the Fifteenth Way, long before he can be seen from his parent's
dwelling, he turns and walks southward to the Road of Benevolent
Commerce.  Bag still in hand, he follows it toward and then into the
Merchanter section.

With the sun higher in the clear blue-green sky, the wind has softened
and warmed, and more folk fill the walkways that flank the road.  A
wagon drawn by a single horse passes.  Lorn notes the legend painted in
yellow upon the green wagon sideboard: Tarfak House, Spices.

Perhaps Ryalor House should investigate spices.  He smiles lopsidedly
and continues walking, his steps quick and precise.  As he passes the
Empty Quarter coffee house, he can see that it appears more empty than
three years earlier, and that the awning that once sheltered outside
tables has been removed.  So have the tables.  Is there that little
coffee left that it is too expensive for junior mer chanters

At the Third Harbor Way, he steps behind an empty wagon drawn by a pair
of mules and crosses to the white stone walkway on the far side, where
he turns harbor ward and walks down the gentle incline to the lower mer
chanters plaza.  Three carts remain under their traditional green and
white striped awnings as Lorn strides around them to the northwest
corner of the plaza, his destination the squat-looking white building
of the Clan-less Traders, where Ryalth has continued to maintain the
small office of Ryalor House.

Once inside the squared open archway and off the relatively uncrowded
plaza, Lorn finds himself at the edge of a swirl of figures in blue, as
well as a few in red, white, or green.  Seemingly without much notice,
Lorn eases through and around the small groups of traders and hagglers
and hangers-on and makes his way to the stairs at the rear of the
high-arched hall.  He glances up at the three stories of balconies and
hopes that Ryalth has not moved her trading office too far.

She has not moved it at all-it remains the same two-doored area at the
back of the third level, well into the northeast corner.  Sitting at
the small corner desk, she studies a ledger, her head down, and as he
slips toward her Lorn can see that she has cut her hair far shorter
than he recalls.

"Do you have a need of a senior enumerator, Lady Merchanter?"  Lorn
smiles, but he finds his heart is beating faster than it should.

"I have..."  Ryalth looks up, and her mouth drops open.  "You came,"
she whispers.  "You really did."

Lorn can sense that no one is that near or listening.  "I arrived last
night... my parents expected me to spend some time there... so I came
as soon as I could."  He forces himself to cut off the explanation of
why he did not want them suspicious of his immediate departure.  "As
soon as I could."

Ryalth quietly closes the ledger.  "You still are trying to protect me,
aren't you?"

"You seem to be able to take care of yourself."  He smiles.  "And
you've protected me in so many ways.  I never would have thought about
scrolls going through Fyrad, or been able to set that up."

"That was easy."  She pauses.  "It was not difficult."

"Your enumerator?"

"Eileyt is still at the harbor, checking the accounts of the latest
venture with the Jekseng clan.  Dyes from Brysta-their green is better
than anything on this side of the Eastern Ocean."

"Does Ryalor House have ventures with everyone?"  Lorn shakes his
head.

"It's better that way.  Each thinks we're too small to stand alone, and
that way I can spread the risks."  Ryalth stands.

Lorn wishes to hold her, but his hand merely brushes hers.  They both
stiffen.

"I think I'd better close up," she smiles wryly.  "I'm not going to
finish reviewing these."  She lifts the ledger, then slips it into the
leather case she has pulled from beneath the desk.

Lorn watches as Ryalth extracts a wallet from the desk, then slips a
lock bar in place and padlocks the bar.  "It won't stop a Clan thief,
but to break it will make enough noise that everyone will know, and
they frown on that."  She lays the thin and long leather wallet-almost
a narrow pouch-on the desk top and fingers the golds inside into a
position to allow her to fold it in half.  She slips the folded wallet
into the slots in the back of the heavy and overlarge blue leather belt
she wears.

After Ryalth closes and locks the doors, the two walk briskly down the
steps and out though the covered hall.  A few heads turn at Ryalth's
red hair, see the enumerator's garb, and turn back.  "Another
enumerator... has three..."  "trades everything... but not a lot...
doesn't lose much..."

"You should be so good, Tymyk."

"Everyone knows you," Lorn observes.

"I've made it a point," she says.  "I've helped those I could, and
cheated no one."

"The good and fair lady trader."

"Not always good."

The bleakness in her voice surprises Lorn, and he says nothing as they
cross the open plaza outside the hall.

"You were right, when we first dealt with cotton and oil."  She turns
her head, and the deep blue eyes fix his amber ones.  "I learned that
again, the hard way.  I find I have to remember that, but I don't like
it."  Lorn nods, though her words send a cold knife down his spine.
They walk silently eastward along the Road of Benevolent Commerce, past
a row of arymids with furled gray winter leaves, their trunks pale gray
in the afternoon light.

"How long will you be here?"  she asks quietly.  "Almost five eight
days  I get six, but that has to include travel from Isahl and then to
Geliendra.  That's my next post."

"And you sought me out within a day?  Are there not scores of healers
and women from high lancer families vying for your attention?"

"I wasn't interested."  Lorn cannot quite keep his tone disinterested.
"I would have sought you last night, but my family was watching.
Someone has also been following me with a screeing glass, not always my
father.  I didn't come from the house, directly.  I stopped to see
Myryan and then changed in her garden arbor after she left for the
infirmary."

"I would have liked to have seen that."  Ryalth's lips quirk.

"I'm sure you would."  Lorn laughs gently.

They pass the Fourth Harbor Way-the east one, although the ways are not
distinguished on the placards by whether they are east or west of the
harbor center.

"How is Myryan?"  Ryalth asks after a time.

"I don't know.  She seems healthy, but she's... more resigned than
happy.  The only time she seemed joyful was when she talked of the
house and of her garden."

"Isn't that good?"

"I'm glad she has the house," Lorn says.  "I can't imagine her living
with Ciesrt's parents.  He's the second highest Magi'i.  Kharl,
Ciesrt's father, I mean."

"That must be quite an honor for Myryan to be his consort."  Ryalth's
voice is even, hiding emotions.

"She didn't want it, and I tried to talk father out of it before I
left.  He ' waited to consort her, but he didn't change his mind." Lorn
takes a deep breath.  "I think Myryan would have been better without
the honor."

"You'd do almost anything for those you love."

"Almost," Lorn temporizes, again wondering if he should have killed
Kharl before the Lector knew Lorn was a threat.

"More than that, I think."  Ryalth's voice is calm, slightly distant.
"Your father knows that."  After a barely imperceptible pause, she
adds, "Don't you think?"

"Father?  I think he doesn't know quite what to think.  I'm not the
Magi'i son he wanted, and I'm not exactly the lancer officer he
suggested I could be."

"You survived and made captain," she points out.

"I'm... effective," Lorn says.  "Not glorious."  His eyes flick to the
next Way, where a tinker's cart is tied before a smaller house, and
where the maroon garbed tradesman pedals a foot-grinder and sharpens
knives, deftly handling one, then another.

She nods, her lips quirking momentarily.  "Maybe that's why you're a
good trader."

"I'm not a trader.  You're far better than I could ever be."

"You can see what will change," she corrects him.  "I know what to do
when you tell me what will happen."

"We make a good team."  He smiles, happy to be walking beside her, as
they pass the tinker's cart.

"You've never said that before."

"I haven't?  I've thought it enough."

"There's much you think and don't share, Lorn."

He cannot but catch the edge of wistfulness behind the facade of the
experienced mer chanter a wistfulness he doubts most would perceive.
"I'm sorry."  And he is, yet he knows that every word in many places
they both frequent may carry to the wrong ears.

Ryalth points to the structure on the lower side of the Road of
Benevolent Commerce, although she points upward.  "I took chambers on
the third level.  The end stairs."

Lorn follows her through the archway in the wall and then through the
simple shared formal garden-little more than trimmed dwarf cedar, two
short flower beds turned under for the winter, and time-polished stone
benches placed in areas shaded by the handful of feathering conifers.

"These came vacant.  They only cost three golds a season more, and the
balcony is more private," Ryalth explains, starting up the outside
stone steps.  "It seemed worth it.  They're larger, and the breeze is
better in the summer."

"And colder in the winter?"

"I haven't noticed."  She smiles as she stops in front of the last door
off the covered walkway on the third level.

"Better view up here," Lorn says.

"It is."

The key clicks in the lock, and she opens the door, waiting for Lorn to
enter.  He waits for her to enter.  Both smile, albeit nervously.

He finally shakes his head and steps inside, past the narrow interior
privacy screen.  Then he turns, taking in her face and the deep blue
eyes that he has recalled on so many nights.

Ryalth closes the door.  She steps past the screen, and Lorn's arms go
around her, but not so quickly as hers encircle him.

The key clanks on the floor.  Neither reaches for it as their lips
meet.

XLVI

In his under tunic Lorn sits in the small eating area by the door to
the balcony, glancing over the empty plates that had earlier held a
thrown together omelet and almost fresh dark bread to take in Ryalth,
her creamy freckled skin and the deep blue eyes that make even mer
chanter blue seem shallow by comparison, even above the bulky white
cotton robe she had donned before she had made the omelet.

Lorn smiles, and Ryalth smiles back.

He sips the water from the goblet, pondering the early morning drizzle
beyond the small window, wondering if it is the typical winter morning
drizzle or whether it will lift as the sun rises higher into the sky.

The lady mer chanter looks at the goblet Lorn holds.  "I don't buy
coffee any more."

"That's all right.  It's too bitter for me."

"I liked it, but you can't get it for less than ten golds a
tenth-stone."

"That much?"  Lorn's mouth makes an "o" as he sets the goblet down.

"The blight.  All the coffee bushes are dying, those that hadn't
already.  They're saying that the chaos strength of the Firstborn has
faded, and that since they brought the coffee bushes, none will
survive."

"I never heard that.  It could be true," he muses, considering what he
knows about the impending failure of the chaos towers.

"It is true.  They're dying."

"No.  I meant the reason."  He finds a smile still upon his lips as he
looks at her once more.

"I need to get ready.  I still have a trading house to run."  Ryalth's
face clouds abruptly.

"You're worried."  Lorn pauses, then says, "And it's not about trading
today."

Ryalth shivers.  "I still don't know why you're here."

"Because I met you one night when I was a student, and nothing was
quite the same after that."

She laughs, a forced sound.  "You just wanted me in bed."

"At first," he admits.  Then he grins.  "And you just wanted to know
what loving someone from the Magi'i was like."

"Someone sweet," she corrects.

He shakes his head.  "I'm not sweet."

"You are inside, and to those you love."

"You know why I'm here," he points out.

"You never tell me, though.  That's something I hate about the Magi'i.
You-maybe not you-but most Magi'i use words as weapons, and none of you
like to say anything beyond pleasantries because you're afraid someone
will weigh the truth of your words and use it against you."

"They do," Lorn counters.  "All that bothers you, but that's not what's
worrying you."

"I'm fine."

Lorn conceals a frown.  He stands and walks over to her, drawing her to
her feet and nuzzling her ear.

Ryalth remains stiff, unyielding.

"I'd feel better explaining this way," he whispers.  "You don't know
how closely the Magi'i watch and how they use the chaos-glasses."

She nips his ear, slightly harder than necessary.  "That's for not
telling me earlier.  I knew, but I wanted you to tell me."

"I'm sorry," he murmurs.  "Will you tell me what else is bothering
you?"

"I said..."

"It's not true."

"I would love a man who still remains Magi'i."

"He loves you."  Lorn keeps his voice low, and his left hand massages
the tight muscles beside her right shoulder blade.  "Tell me."

"Shevelt has been pressing me... he says I really don't have a
consort," Ryalth says quietly, letting her arms encircle him, but
loosely.

"Who is he?  A spoiled trader?"  Lorn's left hand continues to massage
her tight shoulder muscles.

"The heir to the Yuryan Clan... shimmer cloth Hamorian cotton,
spices..."

"Does he want a consort?"  Her smothered laugh is bitter.

"Come to Geliendra for my first furlough," he says.  "A year after I
get there."

Her eyebrows lift and she leans back to look at him.  "Why?"  Lorn
swallows, then bends to let his lips touch her left ear.  "So we can be
consorted there."

"You mean it."  She shakes her head, pushing him away slightly before
whispering back.  "Why there?"

"Because it's not here."

She laughs at the dryness in his tone.  "And?"

"If I'm followed here, anyone would think you're my mistress-" Lorn
stops, not really sure how to voice what he thinks.

"I'm not?"  Her eyebrows arch.

"You're far more than that."  He hurries his next murmured words. "That
anyone would think you are my mistress protects you."

She nods.  "I think I understand.  I don't like it."

"I'm trying...."

"I know."  She tightens her embrace for a moment.  "I know."

Lorn holds her close, as she does him.

Ryalth will have to leave shortly, all too soon.

And Lorn will still have to handle Shevelt... before he leaves for
Geliendra.

XLVII

Lorn studies the city from the fourth-level portico of his parents'
dwelling, watching the morning winter sun create shimmers that dance
across the harbor and the Great Western Ocean farther to the south. Yet
to Lorn's eyes, the white city does not seem so vibrant as usual. Is it
because of the winter-gray leaves... or the absence of the green and
white awnings, furled for the winter... or because he sees it
differently?

The air is still, cool but warming as the sun climbs.

Sensing someone approaching, he turns to see the round-faced
servant-Sylirya-carrying a small basket.  She inclines her head to
him.

"Good day, Sylirya."

"Good day, scr."

Lorn peers at the basket.

"Brushes and caustic, scr.  To clean the tiles on rear portico."

"That's a hard job.  Mother used to give it to us when we were
children."  Lorn half-smiles at the memory, then adds, "Well... I won't
keep you."

He steps back to let Sylirya pass and get to her duties, then turns and
begins to walk back toward the stairs down to his chamber.  The door to
his father's study is open, and Kien stands there, a polished white oak
walking stick in his hand.

"Oh... I thought you would have been in the Quarter," Lorn says.

"I was about to leave."  The older man gives a self-deprecating smile.
"At my age, I have some small leeway.  Vernt left much earlier."

"Are you all right?"  Lorn studies his father, but can sense nothing
overtly wrong-except that the core of order-chaos that sustains each
individual does not seem so strong as he has recalled.

"I'm fine except that I'm not as young I once was."

Lorn senses the shading of the truth, but lets the words pass.

"You're still seeing that mer chanter woman, aren't you."  Kien'elth's
words are not a question.

"You know the answer to that, father.  Why do you ask?"

"I worry.  All parents do, even when their children are grown."

"She has been most helpful and supportive."  Lorn's lips twist.  "As a
lancer, I'm not exactly sought after by those families with whose
daughters I grew up."

"There are many honorable lancer families," Kien points out.  "More
than a few women have talked to your mother."

Lorn shrugs.  "I think it best that any such talk wait for a successful
completion of my next duty assignment."

"Perhaps... a successful consorting might prove useful."

Lorn's stomach twists, but he offers a smile.  "That might well be, but
that would present merely another set of dangers in years to come."

"Your... friend... has done well, Lorn, but she's not from an
established house, and all she has gathered could be scattered in an
instant.  There is no house to back her."

"That is true."

Kien's eyes narrow before he speaks.  "You will break off the relation.
After you return to duty, of course."

"I can only do as I sense best, father."

Kien'elth winces visibly.  His arms move, as if to raise the walking
stick, but instead he but taps it on the floor tiles.  After a moment,
he says, "Vernt is seeing a lovely young woman."

"I wish him well."  Lorn smiles.  "He deserves a lovely young woman."

"You are treading a dangerous path, Lorn."

The lancer captain offers a lazy smile.  "How dangerous is doing my
duty as a lancer?  Or seeing a woman who is a talented mer chanter

Kien clears his throat, once, twice.  Then he shakes his head.  "Your
mother and I have tried to follow the path of prosperous chaos,
following the Light, and setting an example."

Lorn holds a sigh.  How can he explain without giving away what he
dares not put in words?  "I appreciate that, and all you have done for
me, and all that you have done that you do not think I know or
understand.  You gave me an extra year at the Academy for Magi'i, one
others would not have gotten.  You allowed me to grow in ways that were
necessary and that you doubted.  You respected my opinion about
Myryan."  He pauses.  "Please do not think that I do not understand,
nor that I do not appreciate all that."

Kien looks at Lorn for a long time before speaking, as if he, too, must
consider his words most carefully.  "I can sense your appreciation, and
for that I also am grateful.  Yet, as a senior Lector who has been
privileged in my life to see and to hear much, and to serve Cyador to
the best of my poor abilities, I cannot but worry about your not being
able to use your talents where they will be most accepted and
appreciated in the years ahead."

Lorn nods.  "I, too, would like that, and in my own way, I will be
striving for such.  Perhaps I should be even more judicious in my
conduct over the seasons to come."  He smiles.  "But I would hope, with
the strain of the duties that face me, none would gainsay my poor
efforts to take some comfort while on my home leave."

A wry smile crosses Kien's face.  "I will suggest to any who inquire
that after three years fighting barbarians, you do indeed merit some
comfort.  You are young for a lancer captain, and many will appreciate
your words when that is pointed out.  On your next leave, then, we will
look forward to seeing a consort in keeping with your achievements and
honor."

Lorn returns the smile.  "That would be most acceptable, father, most
acceptable."

Kien frowns, then shakes his head.  Finally, he laughs.  "Your lack of
reservation is so honest that it takes me by surprise."

Lorn spreads his hands helplessly.  "I do listen."

"When you wish."  Another headshake follows.  "I must go, but I am
relieved that we have talked."

"So am I."

Lorn walks down the steps with his father.  Then standing on the steps
outside the privacy screen, he watches as the older magus walks briskly
westward toward the Quarter.  A faint smile plays across Lorn's lips as
he thinks about the consort who he knows is appropriate to his needs
and accomplishments.

XLVIII

In the warm air of the sparring room, Lorn lowers the exercise sabre,
blots his forehead, and glances at the red-headed Tyrsal.

Tyrsal's exercise tunic is dark with sweat.  He lowers his own blunted
exercise sabre and shakes his head.  "You're barely sweating, and I'm
dying.  I haven't sparred this hard in years.  Not since you left.  You
could have killed me three or four times."

"Once maybe."  Lorn grins.

"And... you were doing it left-handed.  Don't think I don't remember
which side you used before."

Lorn shrugs.  "I've been working on it for a time."  He grins.  "For
three years.  Against the barbarians you have to be able to use
whatever hand's free."

"Knowing you, you did more than that.  You work on everything.  That's
why I never understood..."  Tyrsal frowns and lets his words die
away.

The two walk toward the open door, through which a cooling breeze
blows, but stop perhaps ten cubits from it.

"I don't want to get too chilled."  Tyrsal looks at Lorn.  "There's
really no one to spar with any more.  Even Vernt..."

"I know."  Lorn laughs.  "All he thinks about is chaos transfers and
the way of the Magi'i... and finding the right consort."

"You haven't found one," Tyrsal points out, again blotting his
forehead.

"Lancer captains aren't supposed to consort.  Not until after their
second tour of duty, anyway, and preferably not until they're over
captains or even sub-majers.  Now you..."  Lorn raises his eyebrows. 
"What excuse do you have?"

"Me?  I'm not a second-level adept with a generous stipend, and I don't
come from a prosperous old-time Magi'i family.  Remember, my father was
the first Magi'i ever in my lineage, and he was the grandson of a clan
less trader."  Tyrsal rolls his eyes.

"There are Magi'i daughters who would have you.  You're talented, and
good-looking, and cheerful."  Lorn pauses, and adds, "And loyal."  He
grins before going on.  "And don't give me those words about poverty.
You may have come from mer chanters but they were most successful ones.
There are many young women who would like a young magus who would
inherit what you will."

"You have someone in mind?"

Lorn shrugs, then pulls a scrap of gray cloth from his belt to wipe the
sabre before replacing it in the battered exercise room sheathe.  "Not
particularly.  I remember my father parading names past me."  He
frowns.  "There was one... Aleyar, Liataphi's daughter.  Blonde, very
pretty.  Well-spoken, and 'it certainly wouldn't hurt, Lorn, that she
is the daughter of the Third Magus.""

Tyrsal laughs at Lorn's imitation of Kien'elth's pedantic tone.  Then
the red-haired mage shakes his head.  "There were two, you know. Syreal
is blonde and sweet.  She was older.  Dett's age, at least.  And she
wouldn't consort with anyone, Lorn.  Not anyone her family liked....
There was something there, rumors about a mer chanter but I didn't know
what.  If their father had sons, no one would care."

"What of the other daughters?  Doesn't he have a bunch?"

"Salsyha-she's the oldest... she consorted with a Lancer commander. His
first consort died of the flux when he was the port commander in Biehl
years ago.  Gives him some status, but she's got a tongue like a sabre,
or so I've heard tell.  The second daughter... she was to be consorted
to a second-level adept-but she died suddenly.  No one ever said why,
but there were rumors that his rivals..."

"Too much influence from Liataphi?"

Tyrsal grins wryly.  "You see why I'm not terribly interested in
pressing a suit upon an unwilling lady?"

"What about the younger two?"

"Aleyar's sweet like Syreal, but she's younger than she looks, if you
know what I mean.  The other's too young, nine, I think."  Tyrsal adds
dryly, "Besides, being the consort of Liataphi's daughter might do
little for my desires to live a long and uneventful life."

Lorn laughs.

"I have been looking, not urgently, you understand, for a quiet girl
from a modest Magi'i family without ambitions."

"I wish you had been more interested in Myryan."

"I was.  She wasn't interested in me."

"I'm sorry.  I had hoped."

"I know, Lorn.  She's not really interested in anyone.  I could have, I
suppose, and she would have been sweet to me, because she is...."

"But you didn't want a consort merely to be nice to you?"  The lancer
captain nods.  "I understand that."

"You know that.  I don't know as my mother does."

"Is she pressing you?"

"She's never said a word."  Tyrsal lifts his eyebrows and rolls his
eyes.

"That's worse."  After a pause, Lorn asks, "Are you working on that
project for the chaos towers?"

"Which one?"  Tyrsal snorts.  "There's one for the Accursed Forest,
some sort of new way to constrain its black order, and one to try to
strengthen the barriers on the fireships, and a couple of others that
no one even talks about."

"I presume you are continuing to ensure that the fire lances are
charged and that the fire wagons cross Cyador in speed and comfort?"

"Absolutely!  What else are unknown third-level adepts good for?"
Tyrsal frowns.  "I'd better get back.  Exercise over a mid-day meal is
approved, but excessive exercise..."

"Especially with a lancer?"  Lorn grins.

"Who else would give me a decent workout?"  The redhead walks toward
the racks where the practice weapons are kept and replaces the sabre.

Lorn does the same, then turn to his friend.  "Tomorrow, then?"

"Of course."

"And you're still coming to the house for dinner on five day

"I wouldn't miss it."

After Tyrsal leaves, Lorn walks slowly back along the Road of Perpetual
Light toward his parents' dwelling, a pleasant smile fixed upon his
face, as he considers what he must yet accomplish.

XLIX

From where he sits on the edge of the settee, Lorn takes in the main
room of Ryalth's quarters-the low ebony table before him, the
straight-backed black oak armchair where Ryalth sits, and beyond that
the green ceramic brick privacy screen that protects the door from the
inside.  Behind him and to his right is the alcove that contains the
circular eating table and two armless chairs, and the door to the small
balcony.  To his left is the narrow archway to the bedchamber, and
beyond that, the small bathing chamber.  Lorn finds it hard to believe
that two eight days have already flown by.

His eyes light on the painting-the portrait of Ryalth as a young girl
wearing a high-necked blue tunic, and a thin golden chain.  He has
admired it every time he has come into her quarters, but never said a
word.  "Your parents had that done?"

"Just before they died," she affirms.  "I was supposed to take the
ship, too, but I got so sick that mother insisted I stay with my aunt
Elyset.  She was really my great-aunt, but I always called her 'aunt."
She died just before I met you."  Ryalth gestured around the room.
"Most of this came from her house-the things Wynokk didn't want.  I did
get to keep my bed, but everything else went to pay father's debts.  He
lost everything when the ship went down."

"You don't like to spend coins on yourself."

"Father did, and on us."  Her smile is mirthless.  "There was nothing
left."

Lorn nods, then asks gently, "Why did you give Myryan the pin and the
coins for the house?"

"I should have known you'd see that."  She barely shrugs.  "You love
her, and you couldn't do anything.  I didn't want you to be upset when
you returned."

"And Kysia... you pay her to watch what happens in the house?"

Ryalth shakes her head.  "How did you find that out?  She's never laid
eyes on you."

"Because someone has been watching me, and it wasn't the cook or
Sylirya.  I never have seen Kysia, except from behind or at a distance,
and that means someone who knows about the Magi'i and doesn't want to
be discovered.  Besides, there was no other way you could have known
what you needed to know to help Myryan."  He lifts his hands
helplessly.  "No one else would have cared."

"You helped me... when no one cared, and you kept helping me.  There
wasn't much I could do to repay everything.  I helped Myryan."  The
redhead looks down at the ancient blue wool carpet that displays a
border of what appear to be interlocked ropes, surrounding a trading
ship under full sail.

"Your father's ship?"  Lorn points to the blue-hulled vessel portrayed
in the carpet and partly obscured by the low table before him.

"No one wanted a carpet showing a sunken trader.  I got to keep that,
too."

"And that's why you invest in cargoes carried on many ships?"

She nods.  "The profits are lower, but the houses will take our golds
because it lowers their risks.  I choose carefully.  So far, we have
lost but one cargo."

"You're a careful woman."

"Except with you."

Lorn is not sure exactly how to respond.  "I suppose I am a risk."

"Not nearly so much as I'd thought, and you have made us more than a
few coins."

He raises his eyebrows.

"You were right about the cuprite," Ryalth says.  "What made you
suggest that?"

"I couldn't say."  Lorn smiles crookedly.  "It felt right."

"Do you have any more 'feelings' like that?"

"Cider," he suggests.  "Or something like it.  Or wine."

"Because coffee is getting scarce?"

"More because there won't be any at all in a few years, I feel."  He
shrugs.  "People will drink something else, but I don't know what."

"I'll have to think about that."

Another thought strikes him.  "Iron... not immediately, but in another
few years."

"Scarcely anyone uses it here."

"Other lands will, though."

Ryalth frowns.  "I do know some traders who use the Hamorian
Exchanges."

"I can't think of anything else.  Not now."  He stretches, glancing out
to where the sun hangs over the dwellings higher on the hill to the
west.

"You still haven't asked me to meet your parents."  Ryalth offers a
half-humorous pout.

Lorn understands it is but half-humorous.

"You'd frighten them-badly."

That draws a deeper frown from her.

"I mean it.  They'd see how much I care.  They couldn't avoid it.
They'd also see how capable you are.  Neither one could hide knowing
that-not from other Magi'i."

"You're aiming to become the Majer-Commander, aren't you?  Or
trying?"

"It's been done before," Lorn replies lightly.

"Except you want me as well.  Or do you want me because I can help
you?"

"I've wanted you from the beginning.  I never thought about using you
to become a Majer-Commander... or anything else."  He frowns.  "I did
want you to help me make some coins at first.  I have to admit that,
but that bothered me."

"So you gave me the chest out of guilt?"

"Guilt... and love."

"I don't think anyone knows you."  Ryalth shakes her head.  "Every time
I see you, and every scroll you send... there's always something new,
like a gem polished into so many facets that the sparkle doesn't ever
let you see the stone."

"Do you want to see the stone?"  The redhead nods slowly.

Lorn stands and steps around the low table and takes her in his arms,
kissing her, and then lifting her, carrying her to the bedchamber,
where he lays her on the deep blue quilt.  He lies beside her, holding
her, and begins to whisper in her ear, half-nuzzling her as he does.

She listens, then stiffens, her eyes wide, as he adds two more
sentences.  After a moment, Ryalth kisses him gently on the cheek,
leaning back away from him slightly, before she murmurs in his ear.
"Alyiakal must have been one of your ancestors."

"Not that I know."

"How could you?"  She laughs and rolls away from him.  "You said you
had to have dinner with Myryan and Ciesrt.  It's getting late, and I
wasn't invited.  I'm hungry, and you have to go."  She offers a
mischievous smile.  "Should I dab you with a little scent?"

"I don't want to leave you."  He cocks his head to the side, taking in
the deep blue eyes.  "Actually the scent is a good idea.  Ciesrt will
tell his sire."

"Devious-"

Lorn gives a quick headshake as he senses the chill of a screeing
glass.  He draws her to him, as if passionately.

Her arms go around him, if not in passion, at least in comfort, and
they hold each other for a time-until he can sense the chill fading.
Slowly, he kisses her cheek, then leans back.  "Thank you for
understanding."

"I could almost feel... someone watching...."

"They were... through a glass."  Ryalth shivers.  "Do all Magi'i live
like that?  With the knowledge that nothing is private?  Nothing
secret?"

"Most can't sense it except faintly.  Even my father has to be
concentrating."

"You can sense that?  And they wouldn't let you stay as a magus?"

"Being of the Magi'i isn't just ability," Lorn states flatly.  "It also
has to be the most important aspect of your life.  Father's pointed
that out several times, indirectly, since I've returned to Cyad."

In a fluid movement, she rolls away from him and off the bed and to her
feet, slipping to the low vanity under the high north window.  She
opens the chest on the vanity and draws out a vial.  "After that, you
definitely need some scent."  Her lips quirk in a smile Lorn knows is
forced.  "I don't like leaving you."  Lorn slips to his feet and walks
up behind her, easing his arms around her waist.  "I know."

He can feel her sigh.

After a moment, she adds, "I know you're opposing your family, and I
know you asked me to... come to Geliendra...."

"But you want everything to be in the open."

"Yes."

He laughs, softly, almost bitterly.  "All the senior Magi'i know about
you and me.  Were that were open enough."  The bed chamber is silent,
and he adds, more softly, "I will put our consortship in the open.
Haven't I kept my word?"

"You have.  You have more than kept it."  Ryalth turns out of his arms
to face him, but still holds his left hand.  "We would not be here, had
you not."  Lorn traces her jaw line with his fingers.

"I am not angry with you."  Her eyes harden.  "I cannot say the same
for your parents.  Or the Magi'i."  Her fingers rise to touch his
cheek, and she bends forward and whispers, "But I will come to
Geliendra at the end of your first year."

"I will be there, with everything arranged."

"Good."  A smile, bright and simultaneously wistful, appears.  "You'd
better get ready to go."  She half-turns and reclaims the vial.  "And
you will wear some scent.  Not so much as last time.  I want them to
understand I also have some small amount of taste."  She dabs a
fingertip of the fragrance on each of Lorn's cheeks, then holds his
face in her hands, and kisses him gently.

He returns the kiss, equally gently.

Slowly, they separate.

Lorn reclaims his tunic from one of the wall pegs, then dons and
fastens it.

"You are a handsome man."

He shakes his head.

"You are."

"I'm glad you think so.  Very glad."

They walk to the door of her quarters, where he turns and kisses her
cheek again.

"Be good to dear Ciesrt," she says as she opens the door.

"Only for Myryan's sake."  Lorn offers a rueful smile and steps back.

Ryalth closes the door, and he turns and walks slowly down the steps
and out to the Road of Benevolent Commerce.

He eases into a brisk walk up the Thirteenth Harbor Way East, and then
turns eastward on the Road of Perpetual Light.  At the click of hoofs
behind him, he glances over his left shoulder to see a gig approaching.
In it are a woman in healer green and a magus in white, looking perhaps
ten years older than Lorn.  Neither looks at him as the gig passes.

He walks almost another block before an open carriage passes in the
other direction.  This time, the two passengers nod.  The man wears a
lancer uniform with the simple starburst of a commander; the woman
wears a formal green tunic of shimmer cloth and a necklace of emeralds
set in silver that sparkles well beyond the carriage.  Lorn nods back
with a smile.

The sun is beginning to drop behind the trees on behind the dwellings
set uphill of the Road by the time Lorn turns up the walk to Myryan's
dwelling.  A light and cool breeze sweeps up from the harbor, promising
a cold evening.  He smiles at the faded golden lily on the exterior
privacy screen before he rings the bell.

The viewing slit opens, and then the door.  "Come in, Lorn," Myryan
says warmly, but she does not step from behind the exterior privacy
screen.

He steps around the screen and into the house, where Ciesrt stands
beside Myryan, a long-fingered hand on her left shoulder.  His long
fingers seem strangely delicate compared to Ciesrt's tall form and
broad shoulders.

Myryan's nose wrinkles, just slightly, as Lorn nears them, and,
suddenly, she winks.

Laughing inside, Lorn keeps a polite smile on his lips and inclines his
head.  "It's good to see you, Ciesrt."  His voice is warm and
friendly.

"You, too, Lorn."  Ciesrt's nose twitches, and he rubs it inadvertently
with his right hand.  "It's been a while."  He gestures to the left
archway from the foyer.

"Thank you."  Lorn follows the motion into the front sitting room.

There, Myryan and Ciesrt take the settee, leaving the sole armchair for
Lorn.  He settles himself and turns toward the couple.  "I like the
dwelling.  You've have done much with it, Myryan."

"She has, indeed," Ciesrt responds, proudly, putting his arm around her
slender shoulders and squeezing slightly.  "She is a wonderful
consort."

"She's always been a wonderful sister," Lorn replies, "and an excellent
healer, from what I have heard."

"She cooks well also, but before long, we will have a cook so that she
can spend more time with her garden, and, some time soon, we hope, with
the children."

"From what I heard," Lorn answers, looking at Myryan, "you've already
done much with the garden."

"The soil by the wall is just right for brinn, and I started some astra
plants in the fall.  They feel strong...."  The healer's eyes brighten
as she begins to detail her plans.  "it's cool enough for winter seed
but I'll need more lime for that.... Ciesrt said he'd crush it for
me...."

Lorn listens, enjoying the enthusiasm and the warmth in his younger
sister's voice, and the sparkle in her eyes as she speaks of gardens to
come.

Abruptly, Myryan stops and bolts upright.  "Oh... I have to finish
dinner... a few things, and I've been meandering on about gardening."

"I liked hearing about it," Lorn says.

"She loves that we have our own garden," adds Ciesrt.

"Just keep talking."  Myryan stands, patting Ciesrt on the shoulder. "I
can hear from the next room," she adds as she pauses by the archway,
before disappearing.

Both men smile.

"She has so many talents to be a good consort," Ciesrt muses.  "My
parents were so pleased.  Father, especially, likes that she
understands so much, and that he can talk to her like he would me or
any other of the Magi'i."

"Myryan's always been quick," Lorn admits.  "She's very sensitive.  She
understands things without people having to yell at her or tell her
twice."  He hopes Ciesrt will understand exactly what he says.

"That's what I like about her," answers the young mage.  "She knows
what I need, without my having to explain everything."

Lorn nods.  "She likes things calm and peaceful."

"It's so restful when I come home from the Quarter at night."  Ciesrt
smiles.  "So much better than I'd ever thought being consorted could
be."

"Lancers aren't expected to become consorted until they've been
captains for at least several years," Lorn says conversationally. "What
are you doing now... I mean the kind of work?"

"Third level adepts do mostly support work... transfer chaos, clean up
after projects, that sort of thing.  I do some of the chaos cell
transfer, and whatever else I'm called to do."

"It's an exciting time for a magus, Vernt tells me, with everything
going on."  Lorn leans forward, conveying an interest in what Ciesrt
may offer.

"It is.  All the projects..."  Ciesrt shrugs.

"I understand.  I'm going to be headed to the Accursed Forest.  They
say that: what you're doing may be of some benefit to us poor lancer
types there."

"Father is enthusiastic about it," Ciesrt responds.  "I can't say
anything, you understand, but they're working on a new kind of
barrier."  He shrugs.  "I don't know much about how it works, but... it
should help the Mirror Lancers greatly."

"If it does, we could move more lancers to the north," Lorn points
out.

"If it does, you may not need lancers at the ward-walls, I hear."

Lorn nods.  "There's much else that could occupy the lancers."

"How have you found being a lancer?"  asks Ciesrt, after a moment of
silence.

"I seem to have a talent for it," replies Lorn.  "Or a talent for
surviving while being one, anyway."

Lorn looks up to see Myryan standing in the archway, waiting,
listening.

Ciesrt leans forward on the settee, his eyes on Lorn, apparently
unaware of Myryan's return.

"You still do not talk of duty and commitment," points out Ciesrt.

Lorn fingers his clean shaven chin before replying, understanding
Ciesrt's allusion, and understanding, too, that he has been discussed
by Ciesrt and his father, the Second Magus.  "We all have a duty to
uphold Cyador and the Path of Light," he begins slowly.  "That is my
commitment as well.  You have found that way that best suits you,
Ciesrt.  I have found a way at which I am good.  I am still working to
see how to make it best suit me."  Lorn offers an open smile.  "It is
harder when you are not born into the way for which your talents fit
you."

"I can see that," Ciesrt says, a hint of patronage in his tone.

"What about you?  How have you found being an adept?"  counters Lorn
gently.

"My father is, and his father was before him," Ciesrt says, "and his
before him.  So far as any know, we have all been mages and healers
back to the days of the Firstborn of chaos.  Father has a glass in his
study... one so old..."

The familiar chill of a screeing glass passes across the room.  Myryan
and Lorn exchange glances, but neither speaks, letting Ciesrt,
apparently oblivious to the chaos-glass scan, continue to address Lorn.
"goes back beyond the time of Alyiakal, but it's too fragile to use
anymore.  With all that tradition, why wouldn't I want to be a magus?"
Ciesrt smiles.  "I've found it rewarding.  I like being able to help
provide power for the fire wagons and the fire lances you lancers use
to halt the barbarians.  It makes me feel worthy to direct chaos into
the making of cupridium."  The lips of the magus curl slightly.  "I'd
feel wrong saying these words to most lancers, but you were a student
magus, and you are of the Magi'i, and you are Myryan's brother."

"I understand," Lorn says.  "Most lancers wouldn't, not in the way you
mean."

"That's it," Ciesrt says.  "Most wouldn't."

Myryan clears her throat.

"Yes?"  Ciesrt looks up, a look of annoyance passing swiftly across his
face and vanishing as he realizes his consort has been in the sitting
room.

"If you do not wish to eat cold emburhka..."  Myryan ventures gently.

Lorn stands.  "I am hungry... and it's been a long time since I've had
emburhka."

Ciesrt also rises.  "I'd forgotten... of course, you wouldn't.  Not in
the Hills of Endless Grass."

"I used mother's recipe-the way Elthya used to fix it."

Lorn can't help but smile at her half-mischievous, half-imploring tone.
"I'm sure it's wonderful."

"It is.  She's a wonderful consort," Ciesrt says proudly.

Lorn ensures that the smile remains on his face as he follows Myryan to
the dining area.  He will speak of small matters, and little else, for
the remainder of the evening.

In the early morning, even before he has eaten, Lorn pauses outside
Jerial's door.  Is she dressing... or already gone?

"Come on in," calls Jerial.  "I've got a moment before I head off to
the Healer's Center."

Lorn pushes the door open.  Jerial is sitting on the straight-backed
chair, pulling on her second black boot.

"You leave early," he says.  "I wanted to talk to you."

Jerial looks up, then stands, and lifts the heavy green wool cloak off
the back of the chair.  "I leave early so I can get off early.  The
senior healers are happy to have someone there early.  That way, the
consorted healers, like mother and Myryan, can come in later."

Lorn nods.

"What favor do you need this time?"  Jerial's smile is amused.

"Because I'm up early?"  Lorn laughs.

"Because you're home and because you have that look on your face."

"I didn't realize I was that transparent."

"You're not.  When I can't tell what you want is when you want
something."

"Sisters..."  He shakes his head.

"Lorn... I have to go soon."

"I'd like to find out anything you might know about a mer chanter
called Shevelt.  With your other... activities, I thought..."

"I might know?"  She wraps the cloak around her.  "I do.  He throws
cold dice and doesn't understand why he loses.  He bullies anyone he
can, and he'll bed anything that has red hair.  Why, no one knows. He's
the senior heir to the Yuryan Clan... if his sire decides not to send
him across the Great Western Ocean on an un caulked scow."

"You've won more than a few coins from him."

Jerial shrugs.  "He can't count when he gambles."  She frowns.  "That's
not right.  How often he wins is more important than how much he wins.
He gambles against Jeron'mer because he usually wins-say eight or nine
times out of ten.  I win only once or twice, but it's ten times what he
loses, and I pick the times when it's safe to win."

Jeron'mer-that is the mer chanter name under which she gambles as a
beardless and dissolute young trader.  "What does he look like?"

"Big... broad shoulders.  He's not much older than you, but he's
already got a belly and jowls.  He's strong.  He picked up one of
Fragon's guards and tossed the fellow through a door.  He has a square
brown beard, and he's going bald.  He always wears scent, something
like musk and roses."  Jerial frowns.  "Not too many people would miss
him, but you ought to be careful.  The Dyljani Clan hates him."

"That's a start."

"Here."  Jerial rummages in the single drawer to her desk, then passes
a short dagger to him.

"What's this?"

"A Dyljan ceremonial dagger."

Lorn takes a deep breath.

"She helped Myryan, and she's helped you, just by being there.  I
thought you'd find out.  She could probably hire someone to handle him,
but it would be neater if you did.  It would also leave the impression
that she has ways to remove people that can't be traced.  You can
handle matters so that even the Hand would not know."

Lorn wonders at the reference to the Hand of the Emperor and notes that
Jerial is careful not to mention Ryalth by name, even in her own
chambers.  He takes the dagger.  "Wouldn't someone suspect?"

"A lancer in a mer chanter brawl?  Or over commerce?"  Jerial raises
her eyebrows.  "Even father doesn't understand it all...."

"Where would I find Shevelt?  After trading hours?"

"The Silver Chalice... most nights."  Jerial steps toward the door to
signify that she is leaving.

Lorn opens the door and steps back into the corridor.

Jerial steps closer and murmurs, "Oh... you might as well change into
the blues in your own chambers, and take the back stairs.  Just for
outsiders, you understand," she observes.  "Mother and father both
know.  So do I. Sylirya and Quyal could care less, and Kysia gets her
wages supplemented by Ryalor House."

Lorn raises his eyebrows.  "Nothing like living in a dwelling of the
Magi'i... who else knows?"

"Besides half the senior Magi'i?  They all think you're just bedding
her to spite father, and unless something else comes up, why would they
care?  Kharl won't tell the lancer types, not unless it will gain him
Chyenfel's position, and what would wearing blues to bed a mer chanter
really mean except that you're hot-blooded.  You certainly aren't the
first."

Lorn holds in the wince and the denial.

Her last low words chill him.  "don't let anyone know more..."  She
smiles brightly and says loudly.  "Have a good day, and make sure you
keep enjoying your leave."

"I'll try."  He returns her smile with an ironic grin.

She nods and is gone.

Lorn scrambles down to the kitchen, where, standing in the corner, he
gobbles down some cheese and bread, and a handful of dried pear apples
Then, he scurries upstairs and, following Jerial's suggestion, changes
into the blues.  He still does not head to the rear stairs until he
knows no one is nearby.

His steps are quick as he walks westward along the Road of Perpetual
Light, and then down Second Harbor Way east.  Although the early
morning is chill, the lack of wind and the bright winter sun make it
feel warmer than it truly is.

As he nears Harbor Way, Lorn slips behind a group of three traders,
keeping far enough away to seem respectful, but listening as he follows
them.  "cuprite's still too dear..."  "be dear for years... risk in
iron, though..."  "need an outland partner there..."  "dry winter in
Hydlen they say."  "spring looks dry, and grain'll be getting
scarce."

Lorn's eyes flicker from the three before him to the others in blue
nearing the Plaza-mostly men, the majority bearded and arriving at the
Plaza in groups of two or three.

"Enumerator!  You're late!"  Ryalth's voice snaps at him like a whip.

Lorn winces, and turns, bowing to Ryalth from where she emerges from
the morning shadows cast by the pillared entrance to the Plaza.  "I am
most sorry, Lady Merchanter.  Most sorry."

"Sorry does not matter.  Once more, and you'll be working in Jera... or
bilge crew on a Hamorian scow."

At the scorn in her voice and the snickers from the mer chanters before
and behind him, Lorn flushes.  "Yes, Lady."  He bows again.

Ryalth ignores him, turning and striding toward the harbor.

Lorn scrambles after her, another set of snickers in his wake.
"voice'll peel lead from a fire ship hull..."

"See why you don't cross her...."

Obviously, Ryalth has a certain reputation.

For a time, he walks a half-pace behind her, to her right.  She turns
down the First Harbor Way East, and he follows, finally drawing up
beside her once they are well out of sight of those who might have
witnessed her scolding of him.

"You were late," she murmurs, not slacking her pace, as she turns onto
the walkway beside the east seawall of the harbor.

"I was.  I supposed I deserved that."  He grins.  "Did you enjoy it?"

"Actually, I did."  A faint smile crosses her face.  "I don't get to
order the upper classes around much."  The smile vanishes.  "Eileyt is
up in the office.  This will have to be quick."

"Why did you want me to come with you?"

"You have a good sense about people, and there's something about L'Igek
that bothers me."  She frowns.

"Your senses are as good as mine."

"Better in some ways, but not in this case."

The two turn and take the outermost of the white stone piers toward the
oiled wooden hull of the three-masted and square-rigged ship tied at
the seaward end.  As they near the vessel, Lorn makes out the name
carved into the stern-Redwind Courser.  The inset letters are painted a
brilliant light green that stands out against the wood.  A Brystan jack
hangs limply from the stern staff.

Two armed guards, with iron-studded leather vests worn over gray
shirts, stand at the foot of the gangway.  Each wears a heavy leather
belt from which hang both a truncheon and a slightly curved scimitar.
Their heavy boots are iron-toed.

Ryalth stops a good three cubits from the pair.  "Merchanter Ryalth and
her enumerator, of Ryalor House," she announces.

"Let them aboard," calls a voice from the main deck.

Lorn glances past the guards to the pale-faced and full-bearded man in
a green tunic and a short golden vest, then follows Ryalth up the
gangway onto the polished wooden deck of the Redwind Courser.

"Lady Merchanter."  The thin trader, a head taller than either Lorn or
Ryalth, bows moderately.  "We are most glad to see you."

"And we, you."  Ryalth's voice is cool, assured, as she returns the
bow.

Lorn follows her lead and bows as well, but his senses are already
scanning the vessel, trying to discover what it is that had previously
concerned Ryalth.

"Master L'Igek!"  calls another younger man in green, also wearing a
short gold vest, but a simpler one.

The Brystan bows to Ryalth.  "If you will excuse me for a moment..."

"Not at all.  Would you mind if I showed the enumerator around- just
the open decks?  His experience has been more in the grasslands than
here."

"Be our guest."  L'Igek smiles politely before turning.

"This way," Ryalth says coolly, her voice harder than when she had
spoken to L'Igek.  Lorn follows as she climbs the ladder-steps to the
higher rear deck.  They pass a raised platform that holds the ship's
wheel and a rack designed, presumably, to hold navigation gear when at
sea.

Lorn can understand Ryalth's feelings about the ship.  While the people
hold the normal ranges of order and chaos within their bodies, the ship
itself is less than whole.  He lets his senses range down the rudder
that dominates the stern, but the wood is solid.

They parallel the taffrail and then head forward, descending the ladder
on the seaward side of the Courser.  Lorn stiffens, then murmurs to
Ryalth, "Bracing... the keel itself is cracking... a weakness in the
wood... something like that."

Ryalth nods politely, and murmurs.  "Say no more.  Not now."  She adds
more loudly.  "That's the main hold cover there.  Don't ask stupid
questions."

Lorn bows his head and answers obsequiously, "Yes, Lady Merchanter.  As
you wish."

Ryalth's eyes harden.  "Remember that."

L'Igek, turning from the junior officer or mate, smothers a smile as he
nears them.  "I have the agreements in my cabin."  He gestures, then
leads Ryalth through the open passageway on the main deck into the rear
deck house.

Lorn follows.

"This enumerator is more... muscular than the last," says the Brystan
in a low voice to Ryalth.

"They have differing talents," Ryalth replies off-handedly.

L'Igek laughs.  "I like you, Lady Ryalth.  Like a dagger, you reach the
point quickly."  He stops in the narrow passageway, steps past the
doorway, and allows both Ryalth and Lorn to enter.

The master's cabin is cramped, with a narrow bunk flush against the
rear bulkhead.  Forward of the bunk is a circular table, bolted to the
deck, with four low-backed chairs around it.  Several scrolls and a
pile of what appear to be bills of lading are stacked on one side, a
closed ledger beside them.

The Brystan seats himself by the papers and waits for Ryalth to sit.

"You have a tenth of the oil seeds and a twentieth part of the dried
fruit.  Do you wish a tenth of the ginger wood

"I would greatly like that," Ryalth admits, "but the House accounts
will not cover that at present."

L'Igek nods as if he had expected the response.

"And how much do you wish to take of the return spice cargo?"  asks the
Brystan.  "You had mentioned an interest there."

"As little as you will grant me the favor of," Ryalth says almost
pleadingly.  "We are but a small house, as well you know, and... you
did hear of what befell the Western Hare?"

The pale-skinned Brystan nods.  "I was not aware...."

"Enough," Ryalth replies.  "More than enough.  We have shares in
others, but I cannot promise what has not ported."  She shrugs
apologetically.  "You will set out before we see those coins, yet I
would not lose your favor."

"Fifty golds... I cannot accept less, not for the best in Hamorian
peppercorns and cumin."

Ryalth winces.  "For you, for your friendship, it will be fifty."  She
pauses.  "But the usual arrangement."

"Of course.  That will not change."

Ryalth extracts a wallet from somewhere and carefully counts out
twenty-five golds, then eases them onto the polished wood of the table
before L'Igek.  In turn, the Brystan counts them.  Only after that does
he lift the pen and write out the exchange bill.

Once he has finished it, he extends the parchment to her.  She reads
slowly and carefully.  Then she nods.  L'Igek slides the inkstand
across to her, and extends a quill pen.  She signs, her cursive clear
and precise: Ryalth for Ryalor House.

Then L'Igek signs and returns the parchment to her.  "Always a pleasure
doing business with Ryalor House, Lady Merchanter."  L'Igek pauses,
then grins.  "Will we ever see a true man in your House?"

Ryalth returns the grin with a smile.  "I am most certain you will.
Perhaps sooner than you think."

"You have said such before."  L'Igek rises.  "And I will again,"
replies Ryalth as she stands.  Lorn follows their lead, and trails them
out onto the main deck.  "We sail with the evening wind," L'Igek
announces.  "I wish you fair and following winds," the woman mer
chanter responds, "and an early and profitable return to Cyad."

At the head of the gangway, the Brystan bows again.  "The combine will
be pleased to know of your continuing support."

"I appreciate their forbearance."  Ryalth nods once more.  Lorn waits
until they are a hundred cubits from the ship and past the sweating
figures unloading the coastal schooner that is tied up inshore of the
Courser.  "Why did you wait so long?"  His tone is curious.

"When they want to insure, you get a better deal if you're late.  They
don't like holding the entire risk of a cargo.  If I can't get a share,
I'll find another master who has something I think I can factor for a
profit.  They keep my coins whether the cargo makes a profit or not. On
this end, I have more control, but you can't buy shares in just
incoming cargoes.  Not and remain a mer chanter for long."

Lorn nods, although he is far from sure he fully understands.  As he
considers her words, the two walk slowly northward on the walkway
flanking the seawall, back toward the Trading Plaza for the Clanless
Houses.

"If the Courser gets caught in any sort of storm, or rough seas, you'll
lose fifty golds, plus your share of the outbound cargo," Lorn says
finally when he is certain that they are well away from prying ears.

"That is true.  If..."  She draws out the conditional word, before
adding, "Some vessels have made two or more passages with damaged
keels, some even more.  Some owners have knowingly sent out vessels
with cracked keels."

"Why?"  Lorn frowns.  "Gambling on not having to replace a ship that's
not worth it?"

"They didn't have the hundreds of golds necessary to repair the ship-
or to replace it.  It's cheaper to get a new captain and crew and offer
him a fifty gold bonus to bring it back safely.  Or sell it to another
trader who isn't so concerned."  She shrugs.  "For all I know, L'Igek
may know of the Courser's problems.  That may be why his buy-ins are
cheaper."

Lorn pulls on his chin.  Each moment with Ryalth teaches him that there
is so much he does not know about trade.  "You didn't think about
telling him."

"No.  I would have had to explain how I knew, and then none would ever
trade with us again.  They detest the Magi'i.  That's also why I took
the return cargo.  It could come in, and if it does, or especially if
L'Igek discovers the problem and survives, none of them would take
another agreement from me."  Her voice softens as she continues.  "You
know, there weren't such things as mer chanters in the time of the
Firstborn.  The first mer chanters-most of them-came from
Spidlar-that's in northern Candar, east of the Westhorns."

"I know."

"But they were the only ones the Hamorians and Austrans would trade
with, and in time, there were mer chanters from Cyad as well."

"But that's why the Lancers and Magi'i frown on the Merchanters?"

"They also like to flaunt their superiority."  She smiles.  "You don't
think Bluoyal is every bit as sharp as the Majer-Commander of the
Mirror Lancers?"

"He's the Emperor's advisor on trade?"  Lorn laughs.  "From what I've
seen, he's probably sharper."

"The Magi'i and the Lancers don't think so.  Your parents feel I'm
below you."

"I don't."

"You aren't your parents."

At the shoreward end of the pier, Ryalth stops, well back from the
carters who roll push wagons of supplies toward the vessels moored
along the piers.  "I have to go back to the Plaza.  I'm expecting a
response from Nylyth House to a bid on shares of peppercorns from Atla.
 They're Hamorians."

"Do you-we-trade all over the world?"

"Only where we can make golds," she replies.  "Only where we can make
golds."  She gestures eastward.  "You'd best spend some time with your
family.  You've only another three eight days left."

"Tonight?"

"Of course."  For the first time during the morning, her smile is warm,
radiant.

He shakes his head ruefully, smiling broadly as well.  "That's what I
look forward to."

Her eyes dance.  "As you should."

He watches as she walks briskly back toward the Traders' Plaza.  After
a time, he turns and begins to walk northward toward the Road of
Perpetual Light.

LI

Long day?"  Lorn asks from the third floor landing of the formal
staircase as Jerial walks slowly up one marble step after another.

"You're still here?"  Jerial smiles up at Lorn as she nears the
landing.  "I thought you'd be elsewhere."

"I will be... later.  What about you?"

"I'm too tired."

Lorn studies her face, clearly fatigued and drawn.  Even the
order-chaos levels in her body were depressed.  "What happened?"

"You didn't hear?"

Lorn shakes his head.  "I met Tyrsal, and then we sparred."

"There was a chaos explosion on the Ocean Flame...."  Jerial slowly
shakes her head.  "It wasn't that big, but it started a fire.  There
were many burned.  I would have been home far earlier."

"Could you save any?"

"We'll see.  I did what I could.  They sent Myryan over to help, but we
finally were dismissed."

"Because to do more would have injured you?"

Jerial nods.  "I'll need a good supper and some rest."

The calling bell rings from the lower front door.

From where they sit in chairs in the third level sitting room, Lorn and
Jerial frown.

"Feels like a lancer," she says.

"I'll get it."  Lorn stands quickly.  "You can sense that far away?"

"You could, if you worked at it."  Jerial rises and straightens the
green tunic, answering his unspoken question.  "Sensing takes little
energy.  It's trying to re-balance the order and chaos that costs
you."

"Just stay here."  Lorn goes down the stairs quickly, reaching the
privacy screen before Sylirya.  "I'll see who it is."  He steps around
the inside screen, opens the door, and glances through the outer
screen's viewing slit.

The figure in the dress uniform of a lancer is Dettaur'alt, taller,
broader, and harder-faced, but still with the air of a schoolyard
bully.

Lorn steps from beside the screen.  "Dettaur, I didn't expect you."

The linked silver triple bars of a sub-majer glitter on the collar of
Dettaur's cream and green uniform, and he inclines his head.  "I was
hoping to have a word with your sister Jerial, the distinguished
healer, and to thank her."

Lorn gestures.  "She's upstairs.  Please come in."  His eyes flicker
toward the harbor where thin trails of smoke still drift skyward before
melding into the gray of the high clouds.

"Thank you."  Dettaur'alt bows again, before stepping into the house.

The two lancers head up the steps, Lorn trailing Dettaur ever so
slightly.

When Dettaur steps into the third floor sitting room, he immediately
bows to Jerial, who stands beside one of the upholstered armchairs.
"Honored healer, I wished to convey my thanks for your efforts this
afternoon.  Several of the marine lancers may well survive solely
because of your efforts, and one of them is the brother of my cousin's
consort."

"Thank you."  She motions for the visiting lancer to sit, and does so
herself.

Dettaur takes the straight-backed white oak armchair across from her.
Lorn sits on the other wooden armchair, to Dettaur's right.

"I heard that you aided many," Dettaur continues.

"That is what healers are for, scr.  To heal.  I am pleased that those
efforts were of benefit to you and your family."

"Of much benefit," Dettaur insists, "and not just to my kin."

A faint smile plays across Lorn's lips, then vanishes as the more
senior lancer turns in the chair.

"I did not realize you were on home leave, Lorn," Dettaur says smoothly
in a deep and cultivated baritone from the back of his throat.

Lorn responds to the lie with a smile.  "Even captains assigned to
Isahl are privileged to get home leave every few years."  He pauses,
before asking, "Are you assigned here?  Or are you on leave as well?"

Dettaur frowns at Lorn's familiar tone, and his eyes flick to the
captain's bars on the junior officer's collar.  "I've been fortunate
enough to be promoted, and that requires a change of duty.  The benefit
of some leave goes with that."  A false smile appears.  "And you?"

"Merely a change of duty.  The promotion came a few years back."

"We have not seen you in some time," Jerial offers an apparently
sincere smile.  "There must have been a reason why you came today."

"Actually, I came for two reasons, first, because of your efforts in
the Lancer infirmary, and also because of your brother.  I saw his...
efforts in the exercise building, and his presence recalled your
charms."

"I must admit my sparring was an effort," Lorn says easily.  "I will be
spending much of the few days remaining of my leave resharpening
skills.  I noted your proficiency, much improved from when we last
sparred."

"I do regret that we will not have a chance to test ourselves against
each other... this time."  Dettaur smiles.

"There may be other times," Lorn smiles.

"Will we see you again soon?"  asks Jerial politely.

"Alas, lady healer," says Dettaur, "had I not come today, reminded of
your presence as I was by your brother, I could not have called at all.
I leave the day after tomorrow in the morning for Assyadt as the
second-in-command there."  Dettaur's smile is directed at Lorn as much
as at Jerial.

"I wish you well," Lorn says.  "Assyadt takes many attacks from the
Jeranyi."

"Fewer, once I am there," promises Dettaur.

"I am sure you will make your presence felt," Jerial says agreeably.
"You have in so many ways."

"For a long time," Lorn adds.

Dettaur flushes.  "For a captain, Lorn, you are..."

"Insubordinate?"  Lorn snakes his head.  "You have always sought what
you wanted, and achieved it.  That has gone on for years.  It's hardly
insubordinate to note what has occurred."  Lorn's mouth forms the
slightest smile.  "Unwise, perhaps, but hardly insubordinate, Majer
Dettaur."

"Unwise.  I like that."  Dettaur inclines his head to Jerial, then
rises.  "At your pleasure, healer, I will call again, although it will
be a season or more."

"I'm sure I will be here for some time, Majer."  Jerial's smile is that
of the professional warmth of a healer with a difficult patient.  She
inclines her head.  "Until then."

"I look forward to that day, honored healer."  Dettaur's smile contains
a hint of triumph, but his voice remains perfectly polished as he bows,
more deeply than necessary, to Jerial.

Lorn accompanies his former schoolmate down to the front door, then
steps outside with the more senior lancer.

There Dettaur inclines his head, if barely.  "Your sister is polite,
attractive, and talented.  It would be a shame for her never to
consort."

"That is her choice."

"Perhaps I will change her mind."

"Perhaps you will."

"Or yours, Captain Lorn.  Geliendra is far more challenging than mere
barbarians."

"I appreciate the advice, Sub-Majer Dettaur."  Lorn bows his head
respectfully.

Dettaur's eyes glitter, but he returns the bow.  "Convey my continuing
regards to your sister."

"I will indeed."

Dettaur turns stiffly.

Lorn waits until the sub-majer has descended the steps to the Road of
Perpetual Light before he re-enters the house.  Then he hurries back
upstairs.

"Dettaur asked me to convey his continuing regards."

"You know what he's suggesting, don't you?"  Jerial notes from the
armchair where she has remained as Lorn returns to the sitting room.

Lorn nods.  The implication is clear-that Jerial will remain of the
Magi'i only so long as Kien'elth remains alive, since Lorn is the
eldest male, and he is of the lancers.  Unless, of course, he dies
before his father does, which would make Vernt the heir.

"He insulted your skills, and yet you were rather mild."

"I was using the sabre with my left hand, and he did not notice."  Lorn
laughs.  "I trust he will remain as unobservant in the future."

"Your left hand?  Why?"

"I may need it some day.  In the lancers, not always do barbarians, or
others, attack from where one can best defend himself."

"How long have you been using both hands?"

"Two years perhaps."  Lorn pauses as their mother appears in the third
floor foyer.

"That was young Dettaur, was it not?"

"It was," Jerial replies.

Nyryah glances from Jerial to Lorn.  "I am surprised he would
call...."

"I'm not," Jerial says.

"You are a healer.  He might hope, but you're certainly above him.  He
is a lancer, after all," suggests their mother.

"So am I," Lorn points out.

"By necessity, not by limitation of intellect or ability."  Nyryah
shakes her head.  "I suppose I shouldn't say such, but these days
there's scarcely much point in being too circumspect."

Lorn holds in a frown, and focuses what senses he can upon his mother.
Yet he can sense neither the chaos of illness nor the darkness of
death-order-or even a hint of either, although there is... something
about his mother... something he cannot describe or even identify.
"never liked that young man, even when he was in school with you, Lorn.
 He wasn't on your level."

"He's two years older, and was a level ahead," Lorn replies.

"There was quite some talk when he broke his fingers in a korfal game.
Among the healers, I mean."  A faint twinkle flickers in Nyryah's eyes.
"No one at the school ever figured it out, but then they didn't
realize, as healers do, that the chaos of each person is as individual
as eyes or the whorls on fingers.  Sometimes, it lingers when men
fight. A mage can change his chaos pattern, but most wouldn't think of
that." She smiles wryly at her children.  "Silly of me, I suppose, to
remember something from years back."

Again, Lorn can only nod, accepting what cannot be acknowledged, not in
Cyad, not when anywhere can fall within the ambit of a chaos glass.

Below them, two flights down, the front door opens, and Kien'elth steps
into the foyer.  He walks up the stairs with forced and deliberate
energy.  His breathing is labored.  The three wait for him to join
them.

Like Jerial, he moves slowly, his face pale and drawn, and he is
breathing heavily when he reaches the third level.  "Where have you
been today?"  Kien's eyes fix upon his elder son.

"I visited Tyrsal at the Quarter; we went to the little cafe off the
Quarter for something to eat.  Then I went over to the exercise
building in the Lancers' Quarter and spent the afternoon sparing."

Kien nods.  "I had not thought otherwise, but best I determine
first."

"The chaos explosion?"

"You knew?"

"Not until Jerial told me."  Lorn frowns.  "It couldn't have been that
large.  I didn't sense anything."

"It wasn't large.  A single cell failed in one of the fire cannons. But
they were taking on oil for the lamps and other equipment, and a
fragment of hot metal shredded one of the barrels."  Kien gestures
vaguely toward the harbor.  "You should have seen the smoke."

"I might have, except that-" Lorn flushes "-I was worried about my
sparring and thinking that I needed more practice."

Jerial raises her eyebrows, but does not comment on the nature of his
practice, instead saying, "Dettaur just left, and he happened to notice
Lorn at the exercise building.  After that, of course, he found out
about how I had saved a distant relative of his."

"Dettaur'alt is an honored protege of Captain-Commander Luss'alt,
Jerial, and much to be respected."

"I was very respectful, father, and even suggested that he would be
welcome in the future, when he returns on furlough."

"Wise of you."  Kien takes a deep breath, then sits down heavily in the
chair where Dettaur had been sitting.

"Are you all right, dear?"  Nyryah bustles over to her consort,
touching his forehead lightly, frowning.  A relieved smile crosses her
face.

Jerial and Lorn exchange glances, as Lorn senses the slightest transfer
of something between his parents.  An almost imperceptible headshake
from the younger healer to her brother is caution enough for Lorn to
leave well enough alone.

"I'm better," Kien insists.  "I just needed to sit down.  We had to
send replacement cells to the Ocean Flame, and there weren't enough
younger mages there at the moment."

"So you pitched in as though you were twenty years younger?"  Nyryah
raises her eyebrows.

"What else could I do?  If all the cells discharged... they could have
thrown off the ship's tower... and we'd have lost another fire ship
Kien half-throws his hands into the air.  "What was I supposed to
do?"

"Just as you did, dear," suggests Nyryah.  "Except you shouldn't have
charged up the stairs like a bull when you got home."

"Women..."  mutters Kien.

Lorn and Jerial both laugh.  Nyryah smiles indulgently.

LII

Wearing the blues of an enumerator under a grayed waterproof, Lorn
walks along the narrow way a good half-kay to the west and south of the
harbor seawall.  A mist verging on rain sweeps across the white city of
Cyad, turning it gray.  As with all storms, this one bestows a slight
and nagging headache upon Lorn.  In the long package also wrapped in
gray cloth and then within oil-protected leather is a sabre, but not a
Mirror Lancer's sabre.

Lorn's eyes finally make out the shimmering oval above the cupritor's
shop, an oval that shines through the misting rain.  Once he is under
the overhanging eaves that form a narrow porch, he wipes his boots on
the horsehair mat, and then opens the door, stepping inside and closing
it behind him.  Inside, there is a foyer of sorts, with a half-door
blocking entrance to the rear of the shop, where Lorn can see the chaos
cells and the dipping vats, and even the special forges.  A hammer
rings through the building.

The very air bites at Lorn's nostrils, with a bitter taste that sears
his palate as well.  His eyes water, but he opens the waterproof enough
to show his blues, before he steps up to the half door, on which has
been fixed a polished plank the width of the door itself to form a
narrow counter.  How long he waits, he cannot tell precisely, but it is
not an insignificant wait before a burly man, barely beyond youth,
leaves his position by one of the dipping tanks and comes to the
half-door.

Lorn bows his head slightly to the journeyman who steps forward to the
door-counter.

"Yes, senior enumerator?"  The journeyman waits for Lorn's response.

In turn, Lorn extends the stolen plaque of Dyjani House.  Ryalth had
not asked why he needed it, but it had taken her sources nearly two
eight-days to obtain it, longer than he would have liked, but early
enough, he hopes.  "We have a... special need... for an outland
trader."

The journeyman takes in the plaque, then raises his eyebrows as Lorn
unwraps the scabbarded sabre, curved but slightly more than a lancer
blade-clearly not a weapon of Cyad.  He does not remark on the
sharpened tip.  "Yes?"

"The senior trade master was told that you could coat this sword with a
thin layer of the best cupridium, so that it would be acceptable for a
master trader of Brysta to wear within Cyad, but enough so that it will
fulfill its purpose."  Lorn lets his voice edge slightly beyond
concern, but not quite toward pleading.

The journeyman frowns.  "That... that is something that master Wanyi
will decide."

"As he should.  We can but request," Lorn says in the polite voice of
an enumerator.

Lorn waits as the journeyman dons a pair of heavy leather gloves before
the younger man lifts the dark ordered-iron blade and carries it into
the rear of the shop, and the white-haired man who finally looks up
from the chaos-glistening forge.  The journeyman also has taken the
plaque, which he displays to the shop master even before he presents
the sabre.

After a time, the younger cuprite-worker turns and heads back to
Lorn-without the blade.  When he reaches the half-door, he returns the
plaque to Lorn.  "For Dyjani House, he will do it, but only for five
golds.  And a good faith fee of five more."

"For the senior trade master it is worth such."  Lorn has expected
such, although the amount will leave him with but a few golds in his
wallet.  Both the plaque and the fee-a year's wages for a Lancer
captain-are required to discourage almost all uses of cupridium except
for the Mirror Lancers and the most wealthy.  "He said I should provide
half now, and half when the weapon is ready."

"That is acceptable."

Lorn lays the golds on the counter and receives a token in return.

"On three day it will be ready."

"Thank you."  Lorn inclines his head.  "I will so tell the senior
trade-master, and I will return then."  He turns and refastens the
waterproof before stepping out of the shop.

Outside, the mist has turned to a freezing rain, driven off the Great
Western Ocean so hard that it stings where it strikes Lorn's
unprotected skin.  Yet, after the air and the chaos mist in the
cupridium-forming shop, the ice rain is more than welcome as Lorn walks
carefully eastward.  The rain should limit anyone screeing his actions,
although there is nothing strictly forbidden about plating an
ordered-iron sabre.  Expensive and frowned upon, yes... but Lorn will
need the weapon for more than one reason.

Lorn shakes his head and continues back toward the harbor, and
eventually toward Myryan's dwelling.  He stops by his parents' dwelling
only long enough to change from the blues to a working lancer uniform
before continuing on to see Myryan.  By the time he has reached the
Fourteenth Harbor Way East, the ice rain has become sleet that bounces
off his waterproof and his face.  His lancer cap is soaked, as is his
hair, and cold water drips down his neck.

Myryan has been watching, for she opens the door quickly and beckons
him to enter.  "You're soaked, Lorn.  How early were you out?  Ciesrt
left but a while ago.  You didn't have to come, you know?"  Absently,
she smooths back her thick and wavy black hair.

Lorn eases the waterproof off, trying to limit the dripping to one
point on the polished tiles of the entry foyer.  "I didn't?  How many
days are left before I must return to duty?"

"Less than three-quarters of a score," she admits.  "If I've counted
correctly."

He grins.  "So I had to come."

Her nose wrinkles.  "There's something."

"I've been in the freezing rain and the sleet...."

Her frown fades.  "Probably nothing.  Come into the kitchen.  I
actually made hot bread this morning-with cheese in it."  She turns.

"That would be good."  Lorn feels his mouth water as he follows
Myryan.

LIII

The Silver Chalice is a two-story structure hidden in the shadows of
the second auxiliary warehouse of the Spuryl Clan, and stands a hundred
cubits off Second Harbor Way West on a unnamed narrow way set between
the Road of Perpetual Light and the Road of Benevolent Commerce. Behind
the two archways that form a small portico are the age-vanished double
doors to the Silver Chalice.

Lorn slides inside the right-hand double door, trying not to move too
stiffly with the sabre inside his trousers and boot top.  He wishes
that he had the Brystan sabre, but it will not be ready for another two
days, and if he is careful, no one will notice the difference.  The
Dyjani dagger remains behind the heavy blue leather of his belt.

The tile foyer offers three arches, and behind the center arch are most
of those in the Silver Chalice-traders and full mer chanters in blue,
all men.  To the left is a near empty small room with but a single
bearded mer chanter of indeterminate age with a woman also in blue,
perhaps his consort or a cousin.

The muscular guard with the truncheon in hand nods to the right,
immediately dismissing Lorn.  Lorn takes in the near-empty side section
where three young enumerators share one table, and a gray-haired
enumerator and a woman in yellow sit in the corner.  Then he moves
slowly toward a table for two just beyond the arch, set so that the
light from dim oil lamps will leave his face in shadow, yet from where
he can watch both the traders in the larger center room, and those who
enter.

The serving girl-in gray, not yellow, and not even so old as Myryan-
looks down at him.  "Same as last night?"

Lorn nods, and she turns toward the back.  No one even close to
Shevelt's description is in the tavern, nor has anyone been on the
half-score occasions over the past two eight days when he has
frequented the Chalice.  His other investigations and observations have
been more fruitful, for which he is grateful.

A woman in entertainer's yellow staggers away from a mer chanter
pulling her ripped gown up across her chest, then throws the contents
of a mug in the man's face.  The man lurches to his feet, only to sit
down as the bravo with the truncheon-nearly five cubits of silent
muscle-appears before him.

Loud laughter rolls out of the center room as the mer chanter sits down
abruptly.  "got you, Fysl, she did... and Wosyl'll have a silver for
her gown, too, and more if you're not watching your purse."

The serving girl in gray appears from the back, angling toward Lorn,
who leans back slightly, watching as she sets the mug on the table with
a slight thump.  He eases three coppers into her hand.  With a smile
she steps away.

Lorn lifts the mug, but barely tastes the cheap red swill that passes
for table wine.  His eyes flick across the foyer as another mer chanter
steps inside, but the man is slender, and bent, and turns to the left,
where he joins the couple waiting there.

"Fellow... seen you around... you the other enumerator for the red
bitch?"  calls the brown-haired and round-faced enumerator from the
table of three.

"Ryalor, you mean?"

"Ryalor-you really think there's anyone but her?"  The round-faced man
laughs.  "Her and two enumerators-that's all anyone sees."

"What about all the traders, Bercatl?"  asks the man to the inquirer's
left.  "Lots of 'em, and they don't trade 'less there's coins."

Lorn shrugs and waits for a moment, until the men at the other table
are silent.  "Met her partner once.  He's quiet.  She listens to him.
Don't know much about him."

The round-faced enumerator asks, "You serious?"

Lorn nods.  "Told me not to say much, but I figure it doesn't matter if
folks know he's real.  He travels a lot."

The other two nod at their companion.  "See.  Told you, Bercatl. That's
why they get contracts.  She's safe here, and he's greasing the wheels
in the out ports  That's what they do in Tuylyn House, too, but they
got teams that do the out ports "can't..."  "...Eileyt bets the House
is bigger than anyone knows..."  "cause he works for 'em..."

"And who else'd know?"

Lorn looks past the three, politely, and the words die away.  His eyes
center on the archway, and the full merchants beyond.

Following an uneasy and lingering silence, the enumerators resume their
conversation.  "...Hamorians wouldn't trade fair without the
fireships..."  "pretty fair... coins talk, too."

After a rime, Lorn stands, leaves a copper by the goblet, and nods to
the enumerators as he starts to leave the Silver Chalice.  A few
whispered words follow him.  "more than an enumerator.  Walks like a
bravo...."

"Looking for someone, he is...."  "wouldn't want to be the one he
finds."

"Wouldn't want to be him if he finds what he's looking for,
either...."

"For a little house... got some scary folk there..."

Lorn hopes they continue to think so as he slips out.

He stops by his parents' dwelling, the lower garden only, to cache the
sabre and the golden dagger, before hurrying back along the Road of
Perpetual Light and thence downhill toward Ryalth's.  The western sky
is still partly greenish purple when he reaches Ryalth's quarters and
rings the small trade bell.

Ryalth doesn't bother with the privacy screen, but opens the door and
takes his hand.  "You're later tonight."

Lorn offers an embarrassed smile.  "Father hasn't been the same since
the Ocean Flame explosion.  I stayed and talked to him for a bit.  He
protested that I wasn't spending much time with the family."  All of
what he says is true, but he is aware of how close to his fingers he
sharpens his blade, particularly given that Ryalth is far more
sensitive than most mer chanters

She closes the door, and they walk toward the table.  "I fixed some
emburhka.  It's warm, still."

"Thank you.  It will be good."  He smiles as he seats himself.  "I wish
I could have come earlier.  I really do."

"I can tell that."  She returns the smile.  "Sometimes, I can sense how
you feel."  She pauses, and the smile fades.  "Sometimes, it's as if
you put up a screen to keep me from knowing anything."  She fills the
goblet before him with an amber vintage.  "Try this."

"Habit... when you grow up in the Quarter of the Magi'i... you try not
to reveal much.  There's too much that people know or can find out
anyway."  He takes the goblet, sniffs, and breaks into a grin.
"Alafraan!  How did you get this?"  The smile breaks.  "You didn't pay
a fortune for it, did you?"

She shakes her head, and her eyes dance.  "Enjoy it.  There's not as
much market for it here as you might think."

Lorn takes a small sip, enjoying the mixture of fragrances, and the
clean taste that calls up both spring and autumn.

Ryalth follows his example.  "I wouldn't have known about it, except
for you.  I "think we can also make some coins from it."

"Oh?  How?"

"It's too delicate for the Magi'i..."

Lorn frowns.  "and too dear for the lancers, and too refined for most
of the mer chanters

"It sounds like there's no one who can afford it who wants it," Lorn
says.  "I'm not sure I understand."

"Too much chaos surrounds the senior mages, and they're the ones who
have the golds, and chaos off-puts the bouquet.  That was what Esydet
told me."

"So... what idea do you have in mind?"

"Send it by coaster to Lydiar.  The Lydians will pay; we'll probably
get three good cargos, two if we're unlucky before one of the big
houses discovers the profit."

"So... after two, go to them and ask if they want shares, large shares,
for their investment."

"I haven't wanted to let them know much about us...."

"There's already talk," Lorn temporizes.  "Let them think you're a
facade for someone else."

"That's dangerous... especially with Shevelt pressuring me."

"I know."  Lorn sighs.  "I know.  Maybe we can think of something else
in the next few days.  Either way, you can make some more golds from
the Alafraan before... whatever...."  He laughs.  "Is that life? Making
of it what you can before... whatever?"  His thoughts drift back to
Jerial, Myryan, and his parents.

"You look so sad."  Jerial ladles the emburhka onto his platter, then
sets the small basket of bread between them.

"I was thinking about my parents."

"You can't make everyone happy, Lorn.  You can't live for them."

He sighs again, and feels every emotion in the sound.  "I know.  I
won't.  You know that.  But... I'm not too sure how long father will
live.  Mother's keeping the chaos of age at bay.  She is a healer,
but..."

"They'll die at close to the same time?"

"I really don't know.  So long as your body stays in balance, you can
give a lot of balanced order-chaos force."

"But does she want to?"  asks Ryalth, her voice softening.

"I don't know that, either."  He snorts.  "There's so much I don't
know."

"That's true of everyone."

Lorn nods, then smiles at the warmth in her eyes, lifting the goblet to
her.

She lifts hers as well.

LIV

The magus in the shimmering white, with the silvered cupridium pin worn
by only the three highest Senior Lectors on his collar, stands beside
the Captain-Commander of the Mirror Lancers in an alcove twenty cubits
from the three-story-high doors to the Great Hall-the main audience
chamber of the Palace of Light.  The polished white floor tiles reflect
their images with but the slightest waver, portraying Luss'alt and
Kharl'elth almost as clearly as might a glass.

Even Kharl's red hair and Luss's bushy black eyebrows hold their tints
in their reflected images.  The walls of the Palace shield them from
the cold breeze that blows out of the north, creating small whitecaps
on the harbor to the south, and far larger ones on the Great Western
Ocean beyond.

"I suppose," Kharl says easily, "that you and the Majer-Commander have
discussed increasing the number of companies of the Mirror Foot?"

"Why would the Mirror Lancers consider such?"  Luss'alt frowns.  "What
is the need beyond duties as ship marines and guards?"

"No need, I suppose," Kharl replies.  "Although..."  He shakes his
head, then smiles apologetically.

"When you beg me to ask a question, devious Second Magus, you have
something to say of the nature you would have me guess.  Guess I will
not."

"I am sorry."  Kharl smiles apologetically.  "Some habits die with
difficulty."  He shrugs.  "One dare not speak too directly in the
Quarter of the Magi'i."

"You never speak that directly, honored Second Magus."  Luss's bluff
voice carries a hint of amusement.  "But, if you would, a slight effort
in that direction would be appreciated."

"Ah, yes, a slight effort."  Kharl purses his lips dramatically, and
his green eyes carry a sparkle of amusement, conveying an impression of
youth.

Luss nods to encourage him.

"Was there not a fire upon the Ocean Flame an eight day past?"

"There was."  Luss waits, as if to indicate that he has no intention of
guessing.

"And it was caused, as you may have overheard, by the weakening of the
barriers of one of the chaos cells that power the fire cannon."

"So it is said."

"You know that salt water weakens metals, and the basic order of the
oceans wars against chaos reinforcement.  Then... suppose... just
suppose... that more cells are found to be weakened... or that the
chaos towers in each ship suffer a similar degradation...."

"Hmmm," muses Luss.  "If that be the future, then we would have to
build our warships as do the Hamorians.  As Rynst has already
planned."

"Cannon of the old style might be possible," continues Kharl, "but
without the threat of the fire cannon, other warships might well
attempt to board ours... if you understand what that might entail."

"Devious mage..."

"You are the officer responsible for the Mirror Foot.  They are trained
near Cyad, as I recall.  They could be stationed in the empty barracks
by the eastern seawall.  If times should become... unsettled... well...
I trust you understand."

Luss's lips curl.  "I will think upon your... suppositions."

"Of course, my friend.  Of course."  Kharl spreads his hands.  "That is
all I wished from you."

"Whatever it be, that is never all that you wish."  Luss snorts loudly.
"Never."

Kharl shrugs gracefully, as lithely as if he were still but a youth.

LV

In the blues of a senior enumerator, Lorn sits at the side table in the
Silver Chalice, nursing a goblet of bitter red table wine and watching
through the archway the bulging figure who has to be Shevelt-watching
and listening.

The enumerators' section of the Silver Chalice is all but empty, except
for a pair in the corner, a very junior blond enumerator far younger
than Lorn with a dark-haired girl who giggles annoyingly and all too
often.  "...Isyt... don't say things like that...."  "you are pretty...
I wouldn't say so otherwise...."  "you tell all the girls that..." 
"none of them are like you."

Lorn glances toward the center section of the building, through the
archway, to where Shevelt stands.

"Last one!  Have to go and be nice to my dear brother!"  bellows the
big mer chanter  "Last one!"

Lorn shakes his head, and rises, leaving three coppers on the table for
the serving girl.  He can only hope that Shevelt will not be all that
long in leaving the Silver Chalice.

Without looking behind him, Lorn-a lancer attired as an enumerator-nods
politely as he passes the bravo in the entry foyer.  The bravo does not
even return the gesture, but looks past Lorn toward the louder mer
chanters in the central room.

"It's always a last one, Shevelt?  Is it really?"

"You'd be hurrying if your brother's consort had red hair...."

A gust of laughter fills the room.

Lorn steps into the darkness outside the Silver Chalice, turning
eastward, when a cold chill settles over him.  He almost halts, so
strong is the sense of being observed in a chaos-glass.  But, instead
of halting immediately, or stopping by the straggly tree barely twice
his height, which he had picked out earlier for its concealing shadows,
he continues walking, back in the direction of Ryalth's quarters.

"Chaos-light," he murmurs under his breath.

After finally managing to be at the Silver Chalice when Shevelt is, and
when the man plans to leave and not drink all night, Lorn must pass up
the opportunity-all because some magus is curious.  And why?  Lorn has
done nothing-yet-besides his duty as a lancer, and besides showing an
interest in an attractive mer chanter lady.

He offers a wry smile to the night and keeps walking.

While his lady trader will be pleased to see him earlier than it has
been, finding Shevelt has taken more time than Lorn would like.  Yet he
cannot undertake what he plans with an unknown magus watching him
through a chaos-glass.  If Jerial is right, all the senior Magi'i know
he travels in mer chanter blues... but that is all they should know.

He nears Second Harbor Way West, trying not to limp or to disclose the
sabre tucked into his boot-top.

At least... at least Ryalth will be pleased to see him.  Lorn just
hopes the next time he finds Shevelt that the same magus does not
choose that time to observe him.

The chill does not lift until Lorn is well past Fourth Harbor Way
East.

LVI

Three nights after his first observation of Shevelt, once more in the
blues of a senior enumerator, Lorn sits at the same side table in the
Silver Chalice.  He takes a sip from the goblet, half-filled with a
vinegary red wine, and watches the burly Shevelt.  He has little time
left in Cyad, and can but hope the unknown magus does not decide to
scree him this night.

At the table to his right are a pair of gray-haired enumerators,
talking in phrases that rise and fall, sometimes audible over the
louder mer chanters in the main room, and sometimes not.  "no winter
rain in Hydlen... snow's light..."

"Aye... both Easthorns and Westhorns..."  "know the lancers asked Ekyon
for another five-score ranker sabres..."  "loved that, he did..."

The bravo in the entry foyer ignores the noise in the central room,
though his fingers occasionally tighten around the golden oak
truncheon.

Lorn takes another minute sip of the wine, shaking his head at the
serving girl as she approaches.  With her, from the back room, comes
the odor of overcooked grease.  At the young woman's frown, Lorn
extracts a copper and lays it on the table, offering a brief smile to
her.

She nods, and turns to the two enumerators.

"One more?  And why not?"  asks the older enumerator.

Lorn smiles, absently, as the server slips out of the smaller
enumerators' section without looking back him.  "and he had to pay
Wosyl?  He should have paid her!"

Shevelt's laugh is loud, bluff, and annoying to Lorn, but he takes
another sip of the bitter red wine-only a sip.

"You don't come here often enough, Shevelt!  Don't be leaving so
soon...."

"I should come here to be insulted?"  The big trader's over hearty
laugh booms forth once more, riding over the enumerators' conversation
yet again.  "give as good as you get..."

"Can't stay too late... have some plans...."  Shevelt announces.

"Who is she?  Another redhead?"

"No... Shevelt's going to journey to a strange land.  She's blonde-all
the way down."  A bass laugh fills the room.

The laughter dies away as Shevelt lurches erect and lumbers toward an
adjoining table.  "If I didn't happen to be leaving, Vorgan... you
would be.  On the way to the Steps, mayhap by the long voyage...."

Lorn leaves a pair of coppers on the table, nods to the gray-clad
serving girl who returns with two mugs, and points to the three coppers
on the wood.

The gesture earns him a fleeting smile.  "just joshing, Shevelt..."

"Off to your redhead, Shevelt... whichever one she is."

"When I finish my mug..."

Without looking back, Lorn departs the Silver Chalice, walking quickly,
as if he will be late somewhere.  He continues his pace all the way to
Second Harbor Way West, where he slides into the late twilight shadows,
and eases back perhaps fifty cubits and melds into the deeper shade
that shrouds a straggly feathering conifer.  He eases the left trouser
leg out over the sabre in his boot-still the Lancer sabre, which means
he will need a few other touches.  Then he stands and waits beside the
straggly tree barely twice his height, and but a score of cubits away
from the arches that shield the double doors of the Silver Chalice.

The odor of overcooked grease melds with the salt air and other odors
from the harbor.  Only a trace of purple hangs above the low hills to
the north and west, and the early night air is warmer than it has been
in more than an eight day with a trace of dampness that recalls fall
not winter.  Lorn remains silent as another man in blue walks slowly
from the west end of the way and enters the Silver Chalice.

The right hand double-door opens, and then closes.

Lorn waits, but Shevelt does not emerge.

The sound of voices from the way behind Lorn drifts past him, subsiding
as the pair continues toward the harbor.

At last, the door opens and the tall and bulky figure in blue that is
Shevelt steps out into the night, stretching slightly, before turning
toward Lorn.  Lorn waits until the trader is within a handful of cubits
before he moves.

"Trader, scr..."  Lorn cringes, almost cowers as he scuttles toward
Shevelt.  "Trader, sera word.  A word, please."

Shevelt turns, his face twisting.

Lorn backs away, but only slightly.  "Scr... a good enumerator.  I am.
Good for all manner of goods and trades...."

"Good?  Begging in the streets?  You disgust me, fellow."

"I'm better than any you have...."  Lorn whines, stepping back another
pace.  "I can show you...."

The bulky mer chanter takes two surprisingly quick steps and grabs the
far smaller enumerator by the shoulder.  "Who do you think you are?  I
want an enumerator... I hire you.  You come beg at the hiring door." He
starts to shake the smaller man in blue, but the younger man slips from
his fingers and bends as if struck.

"Trash..."  mumbles Shevelt.  "Worthless scum... off with you."

"Like you."

The coldness of Lorn's words, so at odds with the cringing personality
displayed a moment before, freezes the huge man for the instant it
takes for Lorn to whip the chaos-reinforced sabre across and toward
Shevelt's neck.

The mer chanter gapes, but cannot even blink or form words as the
glitter of cupridium and the sparkle of chaos cut through him.  Both
head and torso fall, a pair of dull thumps on the white stones echoing
faintly into the evening, blood pooling around the momentarily
twitching torso.

Lorn quickly takes out the golden scabbard and extracts the dagger,
driving it into the dead man's back, rather than turn the body.  He
dusts the dagger's scabbard with chaos and leaves it by the head, then
walks quickly along the shadowed edge of the warehouse, pausing in the
deeper shadows to clean the sabre and replace it.  The cleaning rag
vanishes in a puff of chaos fire, and Lorn walks out onto Second Harbor
Way.

Lorn has walked a good two hundred cubits when he nods politely as he
passes two Mirror Lancer captains.  He continues downhill for another
three blocks before turning eastward onto the Road of Benevolent
Commerce.

The stars are out full, and all hint of twilight has vanished from the
western sky by the time he has reached Ryalth's quarters.

She has heard or sensed his approach and opens the door as he nears.
She frowns briefly as she opens the door.  "I'd hoped you would be
earlier."

Lorn smiles wryly.  "My parents wanted to talk, and then I was delayed
by an obnoxious mer chanter who didn't like enumerators on the same
walkway.  Extracting myself quietly took some time."

"You always do things quietly."  After closing the door, she walks to
the table.

"When I can."  He offers a laugh that is not quite forced as he follows
her.  "I can recall a few times when it didn't work that way, and the
results weren't quiet."

She smiles, an expression that combines humor, recollection, and
wistfulness.  "I recall one of those times.  Some day you'll have to
tell me about the others."

Lorn shrugs, almost sheepishly.  "I broke a boy's fingers when we were
in school, in a bruggage...."

"A what?"

"A pile-up in a game-korfal.  He suspected, but couldn't prove it."
Lorn laughs.  "A few days ago, he came to call on Jerial.  He's a
Lancer sub-majer.  He deftly pointed out that she couldn't consider
herself above him now, or at least not for any longer than my father
lives."

Ryalth shakes her head.  "In some way or another, the past comes
back."

"Let's hope the good things do as well."  Lorn pauses.  "That does mean
that he doesn't want me dead too soon."

"Oh... because your younger brother's a magus?"

"Exactly."

"Have you eaten?"

"Not since... this morning, I think.  I had some dried pear apples
early this afternoon, but not very many."  He grins.  "Kysia still has
avoided meeting me."  The grin fades.  "It's probably better that
way."

"Why don't you sit down?  I waited, and I'm hungry."

Lorn holds back a wince at the sharpness of her tone.  "I'm sorry."  He
glances at the covered dish in the middle of the small circular
table.

"It's armenak-Austran creamed beef strips and noodles."

Lorn takes the ladle and serves Ryalth, then himself, offering her the
bread first, as well.  The armenak is strongly seasoned, but with a
trilialike tang, rather than with a chilled or pepper-like spiciness,
and Lorn finds he has finished all he has served himself, when half of
Ryalth's portion remains on her blue crockery platter.

"I was hungry."

"You usually are."  She puts down the goblet from which she has hardly
drunk and looks across the table at him.  "You have to leave soon,
don't you?"

"Before the end of the eight day  I can't risk being late in reporting
for duty.  Not as a Lancer captain with magus blood."  His lips twist.
"And not with senior officers waiting for mistakes."

Ryalth tilts her head quizzically.

Lorn nods ruefully.  "I know.  I know.  But you're not a mistake.
That's why I need a season or so to set things up."

Ryalth waits.

"I keep my word, lady trader, and that's one promise I want to keep.
More than you know."  He looks into her eyes and repeats the words.
"More than you know."

"I'm glad."

They both smile.

LVII

Cyad is swathed in gray, the sun sending but a dim light across the
city.  The fog outside the master cupritor's shop carries not only the
scents of salt and the claminess of the fog itself, but the acrid odors
of acids and chaos-forming.  The sounds of hammers and forges echo more
loudly as Lorn, wearing the grayed waterproof, climbs the step to the
narrow porch, where he wipes his boots.

After opening the door and stepping inside, Lorn closes it firmly
behind him, walks forward, and waits at the countered half-door.  When
the young journeyman finally acknowledges him and approaches, Lorn
shows the token he had received earlier and the Dyjani plaque.  "I have
come for the Brystan sword."

The journeyman inclines his head but slightly.  "The modified sabre is
ready, and the master would have it out of his place, masterful though
the work is."

Lorn places the token and the five golds on the narrow counter-and two
silvers.

The younger man takes the token, but leaves the coins on the polished
wood and steps to the side and a rack that Lorn cannot fully see,
returning with the sabre and the scabbard.  He eases the weapon out of
the scabbard for Lorn to see.

Lorn glances at it, in the manner of an enumerator unaware of and
unconcerned with the intricacies of blades.  "It looks as it should."

"The master also rebalanced the blade and adjusted the scabbard for the
additional thickness and the point.  That meant some additional
rivets."

Lorn smiles, keeping the resignation from his lips, and adds another
gold to the pile.

"We thank the house of Dyjani," responds the journeyman.

"The house of Dyjani thanks you and master Wanyi."  Lorn bows, then
wraps the weapon in the gray cotton and the oilcloth before leaving the
shop.

As he walks eastward through the heavy fog toward the harbor, swathed
in his gray waterproof, Lorn hopes that his investment of more than a
year's pay will provide what he needs.

LVIII

Lorn stands in the afternoon shadows on the upper level portico of his
parents' dwelling, the wind from the Great Western Ocean in his face as
he looks out across the harbor, taking in the scaffolds erected around
the Ocean Flame, and the other fire ship tied along the same pier
farther seaward.  From what he can tell, the two square-rigged ocean
vessels on the adjacent pier are both Brystan, while the three
schooners on the coastal pier are from Lydiar, Hydlen, and Gallos, if
the colors of the ensigns flying from on their sterns are any
indication.  Another vessel, with wind-billowed sails, cuts diagonally
out of the southwest toward the harbor.

The wind has shifted and strengthened enough to clear out the heavy fog
of the morning.  Whitecaps fill the water that is as much gray as blue
under the dark clouds that swirl in from the west, and the wind hints
at colder weather approaching.  Lorn can sense someone behind him, but
he does not turn for a while.

When he does, his mother is still waiting, wearing a heavy green
woollen cloak.

"I don't go to the healing center except on two day and four day  A
small benefit of age and experience," she says.  "I had hoped we could
have some moments together before you left."

"Would you like to go down to the sitting room?"  he asks as his eyes
shift to her cloak.  "It would be warmer."

"No.  I like the wind.  That is... if I'm properly attired."  Her fine
white eyebrows arch, under short-cut hair that has none of the mahogany
Lorn recalls remaining.  "The cloak is most warm."  She walks toward
the southwest corner of the portico.

Lorn follows and arranges two chairs so that they sit in a sheltered
corner of the area where the family has often dined in warmer weather,
the wind rustling and murmuring around them.

Nyryah arranges her cloak and fixes her eyes on her older son.

Lorn waits, knowing his mother will say what she desires as she
wishes.

"I never have cared for young Dettaur," Nyryah finally says, "even when
you were but waist-high and friends with him.  He was bigger, and he
hit you, sometimes when he thought no one was looking, but you never
cried.  His mother was my best friend when we were young.  She was of
the Magi'i, but her father was only a third level adept, and he died
very young.  She foolishly accepted Pycal, but we all can do foolish
things when we're upset."

"You never mentioned any of that."

"There was no reason to, not when you were young.  We were more
idealistic, then, I fear."  She smiles, as if recalling a memory that
gives her pleasure.  "It is difficult to remain young and idealistic in
Cyad.  It is near-impossible to reach my age and retain all one's
ideals."  She frowns.  "Perhaps it is better said that it is impossible
to live up to those ideals."

"You and father have certainly tried," Lorn says gently.

"It may be...."  She stops and shakes her head.  After a moment, she
readjusts the cloak.  "I feel old and foolish spouting grand
ideas...."

"What?"  Lorn asks gently.

Nyryah purses her lips.

Lorn waits.

"Your father would disagree.  Seldom do we disagree, you know?
Still..."  She pauses once more before continuing.  "Cyad rests on the
power of the chaos towers.  All lands rest on some form of power.  The
towers are few compared to the size of Cyador...."  Her words trail off
into the wind, yet again.

"There are a half-score fireships, each powered by a tower, and the
half-score or so around the Accursed Forest, and those here in Cyad,"
Lorn says.  "Few for a land that stretches more than fifteen hundred
kays east to west."

"A quarter score in Cyad," Nyryah confirms.  "At the beginning.  You
know, Lorn, that is a very narrow base of power.  A handful of men
control that power.  Such creates the possibility for corruption, and
that is why the Magi'i remove those from their ranks who will not put
the service of chaos above self.  That is why none know the Hand, and
all meet him in darkness, except the Emperor.  It has always been a
struggle."  Another quirky smile appears on her lips.  "Your father
reminds me of that constantly."

"He's reminded me," Lorn replies.  "More than infrequently."

"There is one other thing, my son," she says slowly.  "It is something
so obvious that I doubt you have considered it."

Again, Lorn waits.

"You and Vernt, and even Myryan and Jerial, tend to look down on the
lancer families, perhaps because there are three times as many lancer
officers as Magi'i."  Nyryah smiles sadly.  "The number of lancer
officers who are majers and commanders is less than the total number of
Magi'i, and neither are numerous compared to all the folk of Cyad.  You
were raised among both, but how many lancer or Magi'i families are
there here?"

"Two hundred Magi'i families?"  Lorn hazards.

"Closer to three hundred, and the same number scattered throughout all
the rest of Cyador, with most in Fyrad and Summerdock.  Now... how many
folk are there in Cyad?"

Lorn shrugs.  "The Emperor's census is not made public.  I would guess
there are more than a thousand score."

"More than twice that."  She coughs once.  "Remember, a lancer officer
is almost as exalted to the folk of Cyador as is a magus, even though
it may not seem so among those with whom you were raised.  Power is
held by very few, and it has always been so, and, given the nature of
the world, I fear it will always be so."  She shakes her head.  "What
if the basis of power were in something accessible to all people? Would
that make governing easier and less of a temptation for the corrupt?  I
don't know.  I used to think so."  She smiles.  "I wander. I cannot
ponder that forever.  You may, perchance."

"Me?  I don't think I'm the idealist you and father are."

"You?"  A headshake follows the rueful single word question.  "You have
protected your idealism in a terrible way, my son.  You believe those
in Cyad are somehow better because the city itself is more
magnificent."

Lorn does not know how best to answer such a statement.

"People will be who they are, you know.  Some you can ignore.  Some you
can persuade, and some you can manipulate.  That is where most, even in
Cyad, scratch the line in sunstone."

Lorn nods.

"If you would do more..."  Nyryah coughs, several times.

Lorn starts to rise, and she gestures for him to sit.

"Nothing of flux-chaos there," she finally says.  "You can sense that
for yourself."

He senses no flux-chaos within her, but the levels of order and chaos
are far lower than he recalls.  "You need more rest," he says.

"I do my best, dear.  Holding on to your rest can sometimes be harder
than we think."  An enigmatic smile plays on her lips for a moment,
then fades.  "As I was saying, you have difficulty scratching lines.
Some will attempt to do it for you.  Others will act as you have."

"Yes?"

"You will soon reach that time when only one path lies before you.  We
all do.  Your father did.  I fear that holds for Jerial already.
Straying from that course brings earlier death than holding to it." Her
eyes harden.  "Do you understand?"

Lorn nods slowly.

"I thought you might.  Now... you have few enough evenings left here,
and they are better spent with your friend than with us."

"You don't approve?"

Nyryah smiles.  "You worry far too much about our approval.  You must
live the life you create, and you especially, unlike your brother, know
far better who will aid in your creations.  Your father can guide Vernt
as a magus, as he could have you, but there is no one in this world of
ours who knows the path you have chosen."  She shifts her weight in the
chair.  "I am feeling the wind, and you need to do what you must."

Lorn stands and extends his hand for her to rise, feeling both the
strength and the delicacy in her grip.

"She must be lovely, or Jerial would have made her displeasure
known."

"She is... but beyond mere beauty."

"That is what I meant.  You never did stop at appearances, Lorn."
Nyryah walks steadily along the edge of the portico.

The clouds to the southwest have begun to lower, and the wind is
damper, bringing spits of moisture that herald a fuller rain to
come-and the storm headache for Lorn that is so common he can almost
ignore it.

After escorting his mother down to her chambers, Lorn returns to his
own rooms, where, for a time, he reflects... except before long, his
thoughts are circling back upon themselves.  Finally, he takes out the
small silver book and selects a page, reading almost under his
breath.

RIPENING

Like a dusk without a cloud, a leaf without a tree, a shell without a
sea... the greening of the pear slips by.

Sly tree, you know how... where... So could we with reason, to follow,
leaf by leaf by green, each second of the season, to hold the sun-hazed
days, and wait for pears and praise and wait for pears and praise.

Lorn frowns.  Pears are rare in Cyad, and, once more, there is more to
the words than their angular characters.

He smiles.  He has no choice but to see what fruit will ripen in the
years and seasons that lie before him.  In the meantime, he sits on the
edge of his bed and reads through the marked and ancient pages.

When late afternoon approaches, he re-dons the enumerator blues, and
the waterproof and takes the rear stairs down to the rear garden
gate.

"Who will aid in your creations..."  he murmurs as he walks eastward
along the northern walkway flanking the Road of Perpetual Light.  In
the continuing rain, the wind ruffles his hair and flaps the gray
waterproof that covers the enumerator blues.  "no one who knows the
path you have chosen...."  While those words could have meant that no
one knows his goals, which he hopes to be true, the less obvious
meaning is what his mother intended.

He hopes Ryalth has returned from the Plaza, and is relieved when she
opens the door.  Her eyes are both deep and opaque as she looks at him.
She does not speak, but motions for him to enter.  Lorn does so,
stepping around the interior privacy screen and keeping a pleasant
smile upon his face.

Ryalth closes the door gently, firmly, then faces him, her back to the
green ceramic screen.  "They found Shevelt's body last night-with a
Dyjani dagger through his back.  Everyone in the trading quarter was
talking about it."  She studies Lorn.

"I heard that he'd angered the Dyjani...."  Lorn says carefully.

"The plaque?"

"It is safe.  Do you want it back?"

"No."  Almost eye-to-eye, she looks levelly at Lorn.  "You know that
Tasjan denies the bad blood.  Publicly, anyway.  I suppose he has to.
He's the Dyjani Clan Head.  Shevelt's father Fuyol threatened to
dismember all of Tasjan's heirs."  Ryalth shakes her head.  "Fuyol is
as hot-tempered as his son was.  Before he finished his screaming, at
least four other house heads went to see him.  They all suggested that
such threats were unwise, and the rumor is that some of them suggested
to Fuyol privately that a score of mer chanters were quietly rejoicing
at Shevelt's death.  They also suggested that he name Veljan as his
heir.  Veljan's much more levelheaded."  The redhead looks at Lorn.
"He's more dangerous, but that is because his consort is very bright.
She is the middle daughter of Liataphi."

"The Third Magus?"  Lorn's eyebrows lift.

"Liataphi has four daughters, and no sons.  One daughter died years
ago.  Syreal was far too young when she threatened to run off if she
couldn't consort with Veljan.  There was a compromise...."  Ryalth
breaks off and looks hard at him.  "You knew this, didn't you?"

"I knew that Liataphi has no sons and that he has been trying to find
younger Magi'i as consorts for his daughters.  I'd heard Syreal
consorted with a mer chanter but I didn't recall who that was, and I
didn't know that there was a large settlement for her."  He pauses. "It
was large?"

Ryalth nods.  "More than many."

"So the Magi'i would not be displeased with Veljan."

"One of Veljan's and Syreal's sons has the chaos talent and is being
taught at the academy," Ryalth notes.  "There are rumors that he will
be accepted as a student mage."

"So long as Liataphi and Fuyol hold their power."

"They will."  Ryalth steps forward and hugs Lorn.  "You won't be here
that long, and you haven't even hugged me."

"No... I haven't."  His arms slip around her.

"You didn't have to do it," she whispers in his ear.  "You didn't."

"I did," he murmurs back.  "You would have had to handle it, and you
could, but this way... you can use those skills for something else,
when I'm not around."

"I worry...."

"I do also."  Lorn steps back and offers a crooked smile.

So does she.  "We don't have much time left, but you'll get something
hot tonight."

They both find themselves flushing.

LIX

Lorn lifts the two green bags that contain his clean uniforms,
laundered by the ever-unseen Kysia, and the ancient Brystan sabre that
holds a shimmering cupridium finish and an edge that is every bit as
sharp as the lancer sabre in the scabbard clipped to his green web
belt.  He has tested the Brystan weapon, and it feels better than his
own sabre-except both are his.

He takes a last look around the chambers, checking to see that he has
not forgotten anything, and then turns.  With a wry headshake, he steps
into the gray light outside his door and starts toward the formal
stairs.  He does not get far, because his parents appear from their
chamber at the end of the corridor.  Both wear heavy white woolen
robes-lined with the finest Hamorian cotton, he knows.

"I know you don't like good-byes," his mother offers, "but it will be
more than a year before you get back to Cyad."  She steps forward to
hug him.

"Two, at least," Lorn admits, lowering the kit bags and returning the
embrace.  He can feel the wetness on her cheeks, and he swallows.  "I
will be back."

"We know, dear."  Nyryah gives him one more embrace before stepping
back.

Kien'elth grasps Lorn's forearm with both hands.  "It was good to see
you, and to see how much you've changed in four years."  He smiles.  "I
didn't think it would turn out this way, but you've done well, and I
think you're happier doing what you do."

Even Vernt appears, standing behind his parents, although he is fully
clad in the shimmer cloth of a third-level adept.  "Take care, Lorn."

"I will do that, but you be careful as well."  Lorn steps forward and
claps Vernt's forearm, adding in a lower voice, "The Quarter is just as
unforgiving as the Accursed Forest."  He can sense the frown that their
father does not express, but he does not explain his words to either
his brother or his father, who already understands what he has said,
nor his reasons for voicing what they know without his advice.

Finally, he steps back, glancing around.

"You saw Myryan last night... didn't you?"  asks Nyryah.

"I did."

"Jerial asked if she could be the one to see you off downstairs,"
Nyryah adds.

"We could all do that," insists Kien.  "She shouldn't..."

"She asked it as a favor, and she never asks, dear."  Nyryah looks
blandly at her consort.  "We should let her have that small favor."

"If Lorn doesn't think ill of us."  Kien half-chuckles.

"That's fine.  It doesn't matter where," Lorn replies, even as he
wonders why Jerial has made such a request.

After another hug from his mother and handclasps from Vernt and his
father, Lorn finally walks down the marble stairs, to find that Jerial,
as the others have said, waits alone by the front door.  Her face is
composed, almost drawn, and her eyes flicker to the empty stairs behind
Lorn.

"I didn't want to leave without... but... I didn't want to intrude...."
He sets down the green bags once more.

"I know you have to go."  Jerial hugs him-a long and warm embrace,
warmer than any Lorn can recall since childhood.  Then she steps back
and lifts something wrapped in cream shimmer cloth-matching the fabric
of the dress uniform he wears.  She slips it into his hands.  The
object is roughly two and a half spans square and hard.  Lorn can feel
the polished wood beneath the cloth.

"It was father's," Jerial murmurs.  "He thought he misplaced it several
years ago.  I knew you would need it sooner or later.  It would be
better if you didn't use it until you return to duty-away from Cyad.
Vernt has no use for it; he has his own, and he'll never master it the
way you will... the way you should... if you'd like to return to Cyad
someday."  Her smile is somehow both professional and warm-and
disturbing.  "If they hadn't let me see you off alone... you'd still
have it."

Lorn bows ever so slightly, understanding.  "Thank you.  I can't tell
you how much."

"Everyone has told you to be careful."  Her eyes are bright, but the
unshed tears do not streak her cheeks.  "I will, too, but... believe in
yourself, Lorn."

Still holding the screeing glass, he hugs her once more before stepping
back, then quickly slipping the glass into the left hand bag, the one
without the Brystan sabre.

"And I arranged a carriage for you.  The driver is waiting.  You don't
need to start a journey to the Accursed Forest by carting those across
Cyad on foot."  She raises her dark eyebrows.  "That's a lesson,
younger brother.  Save yourself for what you alone can do."

"Yes, elder sister."

They both smile.

Lorn lifts the bags and steps around the privacy screens, then walks
down the steps to the waiting carriage.

"Firewagon portico, scr?"  asks the driver.

"The one near the harbor," Lorn confirms as he slides the kit bags into
the carriage.

"Yes, serAs the carriage begins to roll westward toward the harbor and
the hint of filmy fog that irregularly shrouds the piers, Lorn turns
and watches the house, but his mental images are of Myryan, who had
cried the afternoon before when he had stopped to say that goodbye...
and of a red-haired trader and the tears she-and he-had shed the night
before.

His lips tighten, and his eyes harden.

Part V Lorn'alt, Jakaafra

LX

At the creaaking from the front wheels, the round-faced second level
adept Magus who sits across from Lorn shakes his head.  "They need
better maintenance."  His eyes show an occasional flash of the golden
ness that may in future years give him the sun-eyed appearance of more
senior Magi'i.  Fine lines already radiate from the corners of those
eyes, for all that he is but a handful of years older than Lorn.

Lorn nods to the magus.  Every few kays, a creaaaaking has filled the
front compartment of the fire wagon that rolls along the Great Eastern
Highway toward Jakaafra.  The sound seems to come from the front wheels
and lasts but a few moments before fading away.

"Firewagons should be silent," the magus continues.  "Don't you think
so, Captain?"

"They should be as well-maintained as possible," Lorn responds.

With a definitive nod, the magus looks to the undercaptain on Lorn's
right.  "Don't you agree, Undercaptain?"

"Yes, scr," replies the dark-haired undercaptain.  A faint sheen of
perspiration covers his forehead, but he makes no move to blot it
away.

Sitting on the left side of the compartment, facing forward, Lorn
watches the magus seated directly across from him, but the man in white
shimmer cloth closes his eyes.  After a time, so does the black-haired
undercaptain.

Seemingly the only one even half-awake in the late afternoon, Lorn rubs
his chin, his fingers feeling the stubble and the griminess of the long
trip in the fire wagon and they are not scheduled to reach Geliendra
until late afternoon.  He shifts his weight on the too-lightly padded
and contoured bench seat, then once again glances out through the
window, a window whose ancient glass creates the slightest of
distortions, rendering the fields and dwellings that they pass less
substantial, as if they were not quite as they should be.

Once the fire wagon had traversed those few kays of the Eastern Highway
that bordered the northeast corner of the southern grasslands- roughly
halfway between Cyad and Geliendra-the land beside the highway has
become far more lush than that through which Lorn had passed on his way
to Syadtar-or even that of the fertile areas around the lancer training
base at Kynstaar.  While he has expected to see the furled gray leaves
of winter, there is green everywhere, much more than he would have
expected.  Yet Fyrad and the southeastern lands of Cyador are warmer,
far warmer, than cool Cyad, at least in winter.

Wrapped in his own silence, Lorn watches, as outside the fire wagon
passes the towns, and then the well-tended holdings.  Yet, for all the
prosperity of those glazed brick dwellings with their intricate
exterior green ceramic privacy screens, their immaculate brick
outbuildings, their wood lots with their borders as neat as if they had
been measured by a enumerator... Lorn feels vaguely uneasy.  Is it
because those houses are more truly Cyador than the massive sunstone
and granite structures of Cyad itself?  Or that such regularity is
somehow at odds with the chaos that supports it?  Or something
deeper?

He frowns, letting his order-chaos senses reach beyond the fire wagon
beyond the comforting warmth of the chaos cells at the back of the
vehicle.

From what he senses, the regularity of the holdings that the fire wagon
carries him past is what it seems.  Yet... something does not feel
right.  Or is it that he does not feel in accord with those regular
holdings and what they represent?  He can almost sense the chaos glass
in his bag, as if it burned to be released.  Yet he knows that the
glass holds no chaos itself, and serves merely as a focus.

Lorn takes a long slow breath, and closes his eyes, hoping that he can
sleep for some of the remaining ride to Geliendra.

LXI

As the carriage driver reins up the two horses, Lorn glances at the
twin pillared sunstone gates spaced wide enough for three carriages
abreast, then at the white oak gates themselves, oiled and polished,
but clearly ancient from their deep golden color.  Two Mirror Lancer
guards stand before each of the ten-cubit-high pillars that hold the
gates, and the gates themselves are swung back into the compound, a
sure indicator that they had not been built to withstand a true
siege.

"We stop at the gate, sers," announces the driver of the open-topped
carriage.  "Be four for the two of you."

"Thank you."  Lorn hands over five coppers, then opens the half-door,
careful to swing his sabre clear, and then stepping down to and walking
across the granite paving stones the open luggage rack on the back
where he pulls out his two green bags.  He looks down, not quite sure
why.  While the pacing stones are smooth and clean, as are all paving
stones in Cyador, these bear traceries of fine hairline cracks.

"Scr... I could pay my own-" begins the undercaptain, reaching for his
single bag.

"You could, Nythras, but consider it a favor that you'll repay when
you're a captain," replies Lorn with a smile.

"Thank you, scr."

Neither of the guards looks directly at the two officers as they walk
through the gates.  Inside, Lorn pauses, glancing northward at the
proliferation of one and two-storied white granite structures inside
the square of walls that stretch a good kay or more on a side.  The
compound at Geliendra is twice the size of the one at Syadtar... if not
more.

The undercaptain glances sideways at Lorn.

Lorn offers a wry smile.  "This is a new station for me, too,
Nythras."

Although it is almost exactly midwinter, the air is warm, as warm as
late spring in Isahl, and damp, as damp as the sea air coming off the
harbor in Cyad.  Lorn takes a slow breath, trying to identify the muted
fragrances and odors, a melange of scents that partakes of frysia, the
decomposition of stable straw, and other floral scents new to him.

Lorn studies the layout for but a moment, then walks directly toward
the large whitened granite building before them.  While he can see
officers and Lancer rankers entering and leaving the buildings farther
to the north, there are none entering or leaving the nearest.  He ducks
inside the archway of the first building, glancing toward the junior
squad leader who sits at a narrow table in the foyer at the end of a
short corridor, much as Kielt had done at Isahl.

The squad leader looks up.  "Captain, scr?"

"Captain Lorn.  I'm reporting in.  Is this the Commander's
headquarters?"

"Ah... yes, scr."

"Where should I report?"

"The third building back, scr, the second archway."

"Thank you."  Lorn smiles and steps back outside.  In the damp and warm
air of Geliendra, especially in his winter-weight uniform and under the
direct sun, he is beginning to sweat.  "Third building," he tells the
undercaptain.

"You didn't think it was that one, did you?"

"No.  But it's faster to ask than try them all."  Lorn grins.  "You
only look uninformed once that way."

Lorn leads the way to and then into the front archway into the third
building back, a low one-story granite-walled structure that, for all
its cleanliness and spare lines, still radiates age.  A heavy-set squad
leader, one of the most rotund lancers Lorn has ever beheld, bulges
over the wide table that holds a dozen wooden boxes, each filled with
stacks of paper.  He looks up as the two officers appear.

"This is where we report?"  Lorn asks.

"Yes, scr."  The squad leader's voice is a mellow tenor.

"Captain Lorn, reporting, squad leader."  Lorn offers an easy smile
along with the words.

"Undercaptain Nythras," the black-haired junior officer adds.

Lorn shows his seal ring, then proffers his orders.  Nythras follows
the captain's example.

"Squad Leader Kulurt, sers."  The heavy-set lancer nods politely and
scans the two scrolls before speaking again.  "Captain Lorn..."  The
squad leader nods as he speaks, and his jowls quiver.  "Commander
Meylyd has been expecting you, and asked me to let him know as soon as
you arrived.  If you would wait for a moment..."

Lorn nods.

Kulurt heaves himself out of the white oak chair, nods again to the two
officers, lumbers down the corridor directly behind his table.

Nythras glances at Lorn.  "They know who you are."

Lorn doubts that is for the best.  "They know who you are also.  You'll
see."

Kulurt returns almost immediately, breathing slightly heavily.
"Undercaptain Nythras, the Commander will see you after he finishes
with Captain Lorn," Kulurt explains to the more junior officer before
gesturing to the corridor.  "The Commander's study is the first door on
the left, Captain Lorn."

"Thank you."  Lorn leaves his gear against the wall and slips around
the squad leader.  The study door is open, and he steps inside.  The
study is roughly fifteen cubits square and contains little beside the
desk and the chair behind it, a single chest-high bookcase to the right
of the desk, and five armless chairs set out in a semicircle facing the
desk.  On the wall facing the door, two large windows, their panes and
shutters open, admit both light and a pleasant breeze.  All the
furniture is of white oak, burnished by time into a deep gold.  On the
desk are three boxes filled with papers, an inkwell, and a pen holder.
Fastened on the wall behind the commander's desk is a green-bordered
wall hanging.  Inside the border are four stylized golden towers set in
a diamond pattern.  Four narrow lightning bolts connect the towers, and
within the lightning-bolt-enclosed diamond is the black outline of a
single leafless tree-a tree with four gnarled branches twisting up and
out from the trunk.  The tips of the branches curve back from the
lightning bolts.

Commander Meylyd is standing behind the polished golden surface of his
table desk as Lorn enters and bows.

"Captain Lorn, scr."

The tall and slender commander offers a warm smile, with both his eyes
and mouth.  "Captain Lorn... it's good that you're here."

"I'm glad to be here, scr."

"After spending all that time on a fire wagon I'm sure you are." Meylyd
responds, gesturing to the chairs before his desk and reseating
himself.  "I take it that your trip from Cyad was unremarkable."

"Just long."  Lorn takes the chair on the left end, the one closest to
the window.

"That's the way the patrols are here-most of the time."  Meylyd nods,
leaning back in the wooden armchair.  He tightens his lips for a
moment.  "What do you know about what we do... or about the Accursed
Forest?"

"Well, scr, I know that the Accursed Forest is a remnant of the wild
order that once spread across all of Candar before the Firstborn.  They
pushed it back and confined it behind warded walls.  One hears reports
that at times it breaks free of those wards and must be pushed back
within the boundaries."  Lorn shrugs.  "I understand that the Lancers
patrol the walls and support the Magi'i and Mirror Engineers in
bringing the wild order of the Forest back within the wards."

"That is in fact the basis of what we do here.  You understand better
than many, as might be expected from an officer raised in the City of
Light."  Meylyd purses his lips once more, leaning forward in his
chair.  "You'll be in charge of the Second Company in Jakaafra, Captain
Lorn.  There are two companies there on the north side.  You and your
company will patrol the northeast wall to make sure that the Forest
remains within the wards.  First Company patrols the towns outside the
northwest wall."  The commander stands.  "It's good to meet you."  He
nods toward the door.  "Majer Maran will brief you on the specifics.
He's in direct command of all the surveillance patrols.  He's expecting
you.  The next door down."

"Yes, scr."  Lorn stands quickly.

"I hear you are most capable, and this is a time when that experience
will be valuable.  If there is anything you need or think I should
know, please let Majer Maran or me know."  The commander smiles warmly
a last time.

Lorn bows, then departs.

Majer Maran has clearly heard Lorn's departure, because he, too, is
standing, as the captain enters his study, a chamber less than eight
cubits square, and even more sparse than Commander Meylyd's study.

"Majer."  Lorn bows, then straightens, studying the officer.  Majer
Brevyl had warned Lorn about Maran, but without specifics.

Maran stands slightly over four cubits, a good head taller than Lorn,
with short, light-brown hair, mild brown eyes, and a thin brush
mustache.  His broad shoulders and muscular chest taper to a narrow
waist and comparatively slender legs.  "Greetings, Captain Lorn, and
welcome to Geliendra."  Maran bestows a warm and friendly smile upon
the junior officer.  "Please sit down."

"Thank you."  Lorn takes the leftmost of the two chairs before Maran's
table desk.

"There are many tales about duty here," Maran begins, sitting back in
the chair behind the table desk.  He sits up and rings the bell on the
corner of the table.  "Oh... I almost forgot."

Lorn wonders what Maran almost forgot, but leaves a faint smile upon
his lips, although his concentration, and his chaos-order senses, are
upon the door, which opens.

"Scr."  A junior squad leader, thin-faced, appears with a tray, which
he sets upon the corner of the desk.

"Thank you, Quenst."  Maran's warm voice conveys appreciation.  A
carafe and two mugs rest on the tray, as well as a dozen clean slices
of white cheese, and as many wedges of thick cracker bread.  A freshly
sliced apple is laid out behind the cheese.

"Go ahead," Maran urges.  "If you're like most of us, you don't eat
much on a fire wagon trip."

"That's true."  Lorn his chaos senses flick across the carafe, and then
the food, but can detect no flux that might indicate poison or other
unsavory substances.  So he samples a slice of cheese, an apple slice,
and a wedge of the hard cracker bread, eating it carefully.  Maran
pours two mugs of juice.  "Redberry."

"Thank you."  Lorn grasps the nearest mug and takes a small swallow.
"Patroling the Accursed Forest is not that dissimilar to patroling the
Hills of Endless Grass," Maran says, "and yet it is also totally
different."  He smiles apologetically at Lorn.

"I understand dealing with barbarians," Lorn offers, "but exactly how
does one patrol the Accursed Forest?"

Maran's warm smile turns ironic.  "The Forest and the barbarians are
much alike.  They would invade Cyador and rob us of the fruits of chaos
and prosperity.  The Forest is a creation of wild order that would
consume all of Cyador and return it to a forest where each creature
would be ordered to destroy every man, woman, and child, because the
wild order does not recognize us as a part of its patterns."  Maran
coughs, takes a sip from his mug, and continues.  "The Firstborn pushed
the wild order back into the smallest area possible, and confined it
with barrier wards.  There are a dozen chaos towers which provide chaos
energy to the wards.  Each tower provides enough chaos energy to power
the wards for sixty-six kays, so that each ward receives power from two
towers.  There are eight wards evenly spaced over each kay of wall, and
all are linked by cupridium cables encased in vitrified ceramic."

Lorn nods, wondering just how the Forest could escape such a chaos
barrier.

"You ask, if you are like most lancer officers, how the Forest can
escape such a prison."  Maran pauses for another sip of red berry
"There are several ways.  First, some of the trees can expel their
seeds beyond the wall.  Once such a seedling takes root, it grows
quickly.  That is why the area for a half kay back from the walls is
continually tilled and sowed with salt to ensure that nothing will grow
there.  Second, the Forest has grown trees so large that when a branch
breaks it falls across the wall.  Full grown trees also fall, even when
they appear to have no rot or illness.  Trees or branches breach the
barrier, and animals use such as a bridge to escape.  We have found
chaos cats over eight cubits in length, ten if you include their tails,
which weighed more than fifty stone.  You will see, on the wall in the
officer's dining room here tonight, the remnants of the skin of a giant
stun lizard killed here twenty years ago.  It is twenty cubits in
length.  It took a special fire cannon to kill it.  Third, occasionally
a tree will send a root under the foundations of the wall.  The
foundations go down more than fifty cubits."  A crooked smile appears
on Maran's face.  "The Accursed Forest is a dangerous adversary."

Lorn waits.

"Seedlings can be destroyed by fire lances but if you destroy such, you
send a lancer as a messenger immediately to the nearest Mirror Engineer
detachment, with the exact location of the seedling.  You can determine
that because each ward on the wall is numbered.  The first ward to the
east of the north point is north ward one east; the second is north
ward two east.... You understand?  Roots are more dangerous, if
infrequent, and all you can do is quarter off the area and destroy any
animals that climb through them.  Yes... they can be hollow.  Fallen
limbs require the most effort, because you will have to destroy all
animals that try to use the limb as a bridge.  The wards will
eventually destroy the limb, but that could take anywhere from a day to
an eight day

Lorn finds himself nodding.

Maran extends a thin book.  "This is the patrol manual.  You need to
study it immediately."  He shrugs offhandedly.  "It is straightforward.
Patrol the ward-wall.  Contain the wild creatures of the Accursed
Forest when it is breached.  Protect your lancers and use them wisely.
Oh... there is one structural difference here.  We have one less squad
leader per company.  That means your senior squad leader also leads a
squad."  The warm smile returns.  "I expect you will find time to study
it.  From here it is roughly a solid four-day ride to the post at
Jakaafra."

Lorn takes the manual.  The time to ride to Jakaafra is certainly
understandable, since Geliendra is on the southernmost point of the
diamond walls that surround the Forest, and Jakaafra above the
northernmost.

"Your senior squad leader will be Olisenn.... You are expected to
patrol thirty-three kays each day, and rest on the fourth.  There are
way stations every thirty-three kays, and, of course, an outpost at
each corner of the ward-walls."  Maran coughs lightly.  "Tomorrow, when
you're rested, first thing, we'll take a ride to the wall.  There's
really no other way to explain it, not really."  Maran shrugs.  "Some
things have to be seen before any explanation makes sense.  Then, the
day after, you'll be in charge of taking the replacement lancers for
both Westend and Jakaafra.  You'll ride the wall, as, if you will, a
quicker example of a patrol."

The majer rises.  "In the meantime, we'll get you a room for a visiting
officer.  I'll give you a quick tour, and then you can get cleaned up
and familiarize yourself with Geliendra.  Please feel free to look
throughout the compound and to ask anyone any questions."

Lorn rises.  "You've been most helpful."

"Nonsense.  The more you know, the better you'll do."  Maran smiles his
warm and friendly smile and gestures toward the study door.

LXII

The late afternoon air is far warmer than in many recent days when
BluoyaI'mer steps onto the balcony where Luss'alt waits.  After a
glance at the Captain-Commander, the mer chanter looks back over his
shoulder, then steps away from the doorway into the Palace of Light.

The second-in-command of the Mirror Lancers does not speak as the
Merchanter Advisor to the Emperor approaches, but waits for Bluoyal's
words.

"The heir to the Yuryan Clan was murdered, and I wished to speak to you
of it."  Bluoyal bows slightly.

"That has been reported, and it is most unfortunate, but Fuyol of
Yuryan has many heirs, I understand."  Luss frowns, as if he is
uncertain why Bluoyal has requested the meeting.

"Before I consulted with the High Lector or the Second Magus... I
wished to advise you."

"Of what, BluoyaI'mer?"  Captain-Commander Luss does not conceal his
puzzlement.  "The City Guards report to the Majer-Commander, but
unfortunates within the city do die at times under the blade despite
the efforts of the City Guards.  Why would such a killing be of
interest to the Magi'i... or me?"

"Ah... you do not know."  Bluoyal nods happily.  "That is best."

Luss waits.

"The heir was killed with a lancer sabre.  A single cut of a lancer
sabre."

"I wish that I could say that no lancer would do such to a trader known
for his arrogance.  Or that such has never happened."  Luss offers a
shrug and a smile.  "Yet those who have their golds speak for them
sometimes find themselves without voice."

"As happened with Shevelt," Bluoyal points out.  "You know aught of
this?"

"No.  I wish that I could say that it had not happened.  Or that all
lancers were so effective.  But it did occur.  However... this trader
was killed on foot and in the dark, as I recall.  Those are not the
conditions for which lancers are trained.  Also, I recall something
about a dagger...."  Luss raises his eyebrows.

"There was a dagger.  It did not kill him.  A healer was summoned.
There were traces of focused chaos around the wound, and the killing
wound was made by cupridium.  Nothing else cuts the way a lancer sabre
does."

Luss frowns thoughtfully.  "That sounds far more like a renegade magus
who has stolen a blade than any lancer officer I have known.  Far more.
And a lancer from the ranks, in the trade quarter?  That would be
impossible in Cyad.  He would have been noticed immediately."

"We also looked into this.  Someone stole a Dyjani trade plaque and
used it as authorization to have a Brystan sabre plated and refinished
with cupridium...."  Bluoyal lets the words drift off.

"You see... it could not have been a lancer.  Lancers are constrained
from keeping such weapons, and certainly someone would have noted an
outland blade being reformulated with cupridium.  Any lancer who
attempted such would immediately have been noted."

"As I said... the man was noticed."

"Oh?  Perhaps you had best explain how this might implicate a lancer."
Luss waits.

"The Brystan sabre was replated-under false pretenses."

"You said such."  Luss's voice betrays a trace of exasperation.

Bluoyal smiles crookedly.  "There is one... difficulty...."

"Oh?"

"The Brystan sabre was not delivered until the day after this Shevelt
was murdered."

"Why are you telling me this?"  questions Luss.  "You claim the man was
killed with chaos added to a cupridium blade that did not exist until
the day after the murder.  No lancer was ever seen, and the weapon was
not handled by a lancer.  Or is that what you wished to know?"

Bluoyal shrugs.  "It is helpful.  An enumerator ordered the blade to be
plated, and reclaimed it.  Yet no one knows who that enumerator was.
Except that he was of average size and wore the garb of a senior
enumerator and had ten golds and a Dyjani trade plaque."

"Ten golds?  Someone could have hired a half score bravos for that."

"You see?"

Luss frowns.

"You do see.  There are two threads.  First, whoever killed this
Shevelt did not wish it traced to him.  Or her.  Shevelt was a danger
to someone.  Or he knew something.  That by itself is meaningless.  It
could have been over a woman.  Or a slight.  Anything.  But... then we
have someone who has taken the risk of stealing a trade plaque and
spending ten golds to make a Brystan sabre cut like a lancer weapon.
Yet no one has been killed in such a way in the eight day following.
And the blade was not even finished when the killing took place."

Luss shakes his head.

"One other matter..."

Luss stares hard at the Emperor's Merchanter Advisor.

"The journeyman who dealt with the enumerator swears the man knew
nothing of blades.  I trust you understand what that portends."

"I fear I do.  There is more here, and more than one man involved."

"Then you would not take it amiss if I discussed this with Lector
Kharl?"

"Perhaps we both should," Luss suggests.

"A most excellent and worthy idea, Captain-Commander."  Bluoyal blots
his face with a green shimmering cloth.  "Most excellent."

LXIII

In the early morning light, Lorn rides easily beside Maran as the two
lancer officers near the wall warding the Accursed Forest.  Lorn's
mount is a white gelding of moderate size, while Maran rides a
fractious white stallion three hands taller at the shoulder than the
gelding.

"You're lucky it's clear," Maran observes.  "We often have an early
morning fog in the winter, especially around the wall.  It can make it
difficult if the forest tries to use a fallen trunk as a bridge to
escape because no one sees anything until the giant cats are loose and
killing cattle or peasants or until a stun lizard has killed an entire
wagon team."

Lorn nods, listening to the words and remembering them, neither
accepting nor rejecting what the majer says.

Even from a kay away, the Accursed Forest towers into the sky, a mass
of greenery that appears more like a dark, low-lying cloud than
vegetation.  The crown of the forest canopy rises at least two hundred
cubits skyward, and the ward-wall itself appears as little more than a
thin shimmering white line at the base of the trees it confines.

The grass through which the narrow road leads dies away, and the white
paving stones continue toward the wall through a grayish white dirt
that oozes the red chaos of salt-killed soil.  The light breeze
intermittently swirls powder-like soil and salt across the road.  Lorn
can also sense residual chaos-from fire lances or magus-bolts, or
perhaps from the spe cal fire cannon Maran had mentioned the afternoon
before.

"It's amazing the first time you see it," Maran observes.  "It's hard
to believe that anyone could have built something this massive and so
long.  Remember, the part that's underground is ten times as deep as
what you see."

As they approach the wall more closely, Lorn glances upward at the
dark-trunked trees that appear evenly spaced just inside the wall. Each
trunk appears to be set no less than thirty cubits from the next and no
more than forty.  At the height from which Lorn can see their bases
across the top of the wall, he judges each trunk to be between ten and
fifteen cubits in diameter.

Maran reins up the white stallion a good fifty cubits back from the
wall, and Lorn follows the majer's lead.

Then Lorn studies the wall-a barrier not terribly high, perhaps five
cubits high, low enough that he can look beyond it while mounted.  Each
white granite wall stone is an oblong two cubits long, one cubit high,
and approximately one thick, from what Lorn can tell.  The wall's
thickness is three courses.  He looks to the southeast, but there the
wall seems to end less than a kay away, a spot marked by the
fifty-cubit-high granite structure that stands a quarter kay back from
the wall-the southernmost chaos tower.  The tower is windowless and
squat.

He glances back to his left, where the wall seems to stretch endlessly
to the northwest, a line of white dwindling and then vanishing into the
gray-green of the horizon.  "It looks as though any one of those trees
could fall and crush the wall."

"If it were a normal wall, they might.  The bark and the outer layer
splinter and shatter, but their heartwood absorbs all the chaos for a
long time, and that allows all sorts of animals to use the trunk as a
bridge."  Maran snorts.  "Then, to remove it from the wall proper takes
special engineer equipment, and the engineers have their hands full.
Sometimes, there are seeds that sprout as well."

"Even in the salted soil?"

"Even there, and at times the seeds and fragments get thrown or carried
beyond the barrier strip."

Lorn glances from the wall back along the road.  At most, one of the
tallest trees would cover less than a quarter of the distance to where
the grass begins.  "How often does that happen?"

"An actual full trunk falling-perhaps ten a season in a bad season,
five in a good season.  Two years ago, there were close to three score
in the autumn.  That was the most ever."

Lorn frowns.  Between twenty and forty tree trunks falling across the
wall every year?  In a bad year, that might approach one an eight day

"A giant cat or a stun lizard-they're about as dangerous as a company
of barbarians."

"How many lancers do we lose every year?"  asks the captain.

"Some years, perhaps a handful.  Two years ago, we lost almost ten
score Maran shrugs.  "That was high."  The majer turns his mount right,
along the white paving stones of the twenty-cubit-wide road that
parallels the wall, back along the wall toward the chaos tower.

Lorn follows, his eyes and senses still studying the wall.

Every two hundred and fifty cubits is a glittering cube of crystal,
from which chaos radiates above the whitened granite.  A stronger, but
less obvious, line of chaos runs from ward to ward through the
cupridium cables within the white ceramic casings set under the
capstones of the wall, cables that link each cube with the next.

The entire wall glitters with chaos and power, yet it seems almost
insignificant against the unseen wall of dark order that the Accursed
Forest represents.  Lorn does not quite shudder, but he wonders how
Maran can accept the Forest so casually.  His chaos-order senses range
over Maran as they have over the wall, and he has to force himself not
to stiffen in the white leather saddle.  Smoldering beneath the
pleasant exterior and the uniform of a lancer is a magus-or a lancer
with the power of a second-level adept.

Lorn lets a faint smile cross his lips.  His eyes lift and study the
road and what lies ahead-the white granite structure that is one of the
dozen chaos towers to power and reinforce the very structure of the
ward-wall.  A low chaos-reinforced white granite wall-built exactly
like the ward-wall-runs from the chaos tower building to the ward-wall
proper.  Although it rises nearly fifty cubits above the dead and
salted-soil area in which it is located, it too is dwarfed by the bulk
and power of the Accursed Forest to its north.

Just what sort of chaos-power had the ancients used to confine the
Accursed Forest?  And how had Cyador been able to maintain those wards
for so long?

Knowing that he has more immediate problems than the source of the
wards' power, Lorn glances from the wall to Maran, then back to the
ward-wall.

LXIV

The sun has not cleared the crown of the Accursed Forest, effectively
the eastern horizon, as Lorn's replacement lancers mount up around the
second way station on the southwestern ward-wall.  The way station is
simple enough, a single low structure with stables and barracks for
three squads, three officer's rooms, and a mess staffed by the local
cadre of five.  The walls are the same white granite as every building
associated with the ward-wall, and the roof is of hard green ceramic
tile.

There had been another reason for delaying Lorn's departure, he has
discovered.  Had he left Geliendra a day earlier, both his de facto
company and the Fifth Forest Patrol Company would have been at the same
way station at the same night-a cramped situation.  As it was, the two
patrol-ing groups had merely passed each other the day before.

Lorn rides the gelding out into the center of the courtyard and waits.
He is in command, for the trip to Westend, of the equivalent of two
squads, each headed by a very fresh junior squad leader.  Before long
the two squad leaders ride up.

"Scr?"  asks Kusyl, the older of the two junior squad leaders.  "You
want us to start on the wall?"

There are two perimeter roads that follow the ward-wall.  One is set
fifty cubits back from the wall-the other more than a kay back from the
wall, roughly a hundred cubits back from the area of deadened soil.
Patrols ride in a line abreast, one squad on strung out from the wall
road, one in a line inward from the outside perimeter road.

"You had the perimeter yesterday afternoon, right?"  replies Lorn.
"Yes, scr."

"Then you start on the wall road.  I'll be riding with you."  Lorn
turns in the saddle.  "Fynyx... you and your squad patrol in from the
perimeter road."

"Yes, scr."

Kusyl has already ridden back toward the lancers clustered around the
stable doors.  "Form up!  First squad starts on the wall road!"  Fynyx
follows.  "Second squad here!  Column by twos!  Now!"  Once the squads
are formed up, Kusyl reports, "First squad ready, Captain."

"Second squad, scr," Fynyx reports next.

Lorn nods and uses his heels to nudge the gelding forward and out
through the open courtyard gates.  A low ground mist, no more than a
cubit high, covers the grass to the south and west of the way station
fading away over the salted ground that borders the ward-wall.  "Line
abreast!"  go out the orders from the squad leaders.  Riding
side-by-side, Lorn and Kusyl ride toward the Accursed Forest, turning
their mounts onto the wall road.  The column follows, each lancer
turning until all are in the line abreast.  Then, the first squad heads
northwest in the shadow cast by the forest crown that towers over them,
even though the massive trunks do not rise until they are almost
seventy cubits back from the wall.

Muted sounds that Lorn cannot make out exactly drift across the
comparatively low ward-wall, barely audible above the clopping of his
mount's hoofs on the white granite stone of the road.  A scent that is
partly floral, partly something else, swirls past Lorn intermittently.
His nostrils twitch as he tries to identify the sources... and fails.

"Quiet morning, scr," offers Kusyl.  "Is it this quiet in the Grass
Hills?"

"Sometimes, it's much quieter, except for the wind.  The wind blows
most of the time there."  Lorn stands in the stirrups, trying to
readjust to the riding he has not done for nearly half a season.

"Times... you can hear the big cats scream... eerie... comes across the
wall like an arrow."

"I've never heard one," Lorn confesses.

"You'll know," promises the squad leader.  "You'll know.  No mistaking
that."

The squad rides parallel to the wall road at a steady walk, passing
ward after ward as the sun rises until Lorn and the lancers are riding
in sunlight instead of shade.

As mid-morning nears, he wants to yawn.  After two days of riding the
wall, and time spent in the evening studying the ward-wall patrol
manual that Maran had provided, his eyes tend to blur whenever he looks
toward the chaos and whitened granite that prisons the Accursed Forest.
Yet... he will be doing this for years to come.

Lorn glances at the wall once more, sensing the cascading webs of chaos
that hold back the dark order back.  "Scr!"

Lorn follows the yell and the gesture from one of the junior lancers.
In the midst of the dead soil, perhaps a hundred cubits west of the
wall road, rising from the salt-dead soil is a sprout of green, a shoot
that is nearly three cubits high and beginning to branch out.

Lorn can sense the pulse of dark order within the green, and it almost
seems as though the shoot is growing as he studies it.  "Lances ready,"
he orders Kusyl.

"First squad!  Form up!  Lances ready!"

"Have them attack and discharge."

"First duad!  Advance and discharge!"

Lorn watches as the first two lancers ride toward the green sprout,
then rein up ten cubits short of the growth, train their lances, and
discharge them.  Golden-white chaos floods over the greenery, but
little occurs except a shivering of the growth that is nearly shoulder
high on the lancers' mounts.

"Second duad!"

As the first pair turns and rides to the rear of the column, the next
two lancers ride forward and repeat the effort.

Lorn watches.  It takes six lancers before the growth blackens and
begins to crumble, and four more before nothing remains.

"Scr!  There's no sign of anything remaining," calls Kusyl.  "Good.
Have them reform while I ready the message to the Engineers."

"Yes, scr."

Lorn turns the gelding toward the wall, reining up perhaps five cubits
from the shimmering granite beside one of the chaos-pulsing crystal
wards.  There, he takes out the grease pencil and jots down the ward
number on the blank message scroll.  "Ward West 163 South, 150 cubits
due west of the wall road.  One sprout three cubits high.  Destroyed
with fire-lances."  Then he signs the missive and rolls it, riding back
toward the column that has reformed.  He also makes a note of the
location on a blank scroll for himself.

"Scr?"  asks the squad leader.

"Kusyl, here's the message to the Mirror Engineers at Westend.  Pick
someone to ride ahead and deliver it."

"Yes, scr."  The squad leader scans the ranks.  "Prytr!  Forward!"  A
small and wiry lancer ranker moves his mount to the side and rides
along the side of the column, where he reins up.  "Yes, sers?"

Kusyl extends the scroll.  "You're acting as messenger.  Take the
captain's scroll directly to the duty desk of the Mirror Engineers at
Westend."

"Yes, serAs Prytr rides off ahead of the column, and as the first squad
resumes its measured pace and study of the wall and the dead land Lorn
glances back at the residual chaos, slowly leaching away from where
solid black order and focused white-gold chaos had met.  The fire
lances have destroyed the sprout, and infused the trunk with enough
chaos to destroy the root structure, from what Lorn can sense.  That he
will tell no one.  And it has taken full charges from a half-score of
lances to destroy one thin green growth.

Under what seems an unseasonably warm winter sun, his eyes fix on that
distant spot where the white shimmering line of ward-wall merges with
the darker bulk of the Accursed Forest and the horizon.  Ahead of them,
twenty kays or so, there is another chaos tower, just as the midpoint
chaos tower lies thirty kays behind them.

Yet the chaos towers all over Cyador are weakening.  How much longer
will these hold, and what will hold the Accursed Forest back when they
fail?  Lorn snorts to himself.  Unless he can determine a way to deal
with both the Forest and Maran before Maran deals with him-and without
alerting anyone else-Lorn will find himself failing long before the
towers do.

He keeps riding, his eyes scanning the wall and the dead land
stretching out from the white granite chaos bulwark.

LXV

The compound at Westend is a smaller version of that at Geliendra-
whitened granite buildings within a square granite wall, polished oak
timbered gates that stand open, and a spacious courtyard with smooth
granite paving stones set edge to edge with scarcely space for the
thinnest of knife-blades between them.

The sun hangs just above the western wall of the compound as Lorn leads
his squads of replacement lancers in through the gates.  Even before
Lorn can dismount and lead his gelding into the smaller stables
reserved for the officers passing through or posted at Westend, a
figure hurries across the spotless white paving stones of the
courtyard.

"Captain!"

Lorn turns in the saddle to see a man wearing a uniform cut like that
of a lancer, but in the shimmering white of a magus, and with a tunic
piped with red trim.  He wears the triple-linked and lightning-crossed
bars of a majer on his collar.

"Yes, scr?"

"Gebynet, Majer, Mirror Engineers.  I assume you're Captain Lorn- the
one who sent the message earlier today?"  asks the Engineer majer.

"Yes, scr."  Lorn dismounts and waits for the other to continue.

Gebynet smiles.  "There's no problem.  I wanted to thank you for your
diligence and your accurate report.  I also wanted to catch you.  After
you get your lancers settled, if you'd join me in the officer's dining
hall... there are some things we should go over."

"I hope I didn't do something wrong."  Lorn lets a worried frown creep
across his face.

"No.  The report was by the manual.  But... if you encountered that,
you may see worse on the trip to Jakaafra.... These things come in
spurts, and I'd like to fill you in... just in case."

Lorn returns the smile.  "I can use all the knowledge you'd like to
share."

"I'll see you in a bit, then."  Gebynet, a half head shorter than Lorn,
turns and bustles across the courtyard.

As the sun drops below the compound walls, and shadows cover the white
granite paving stones, Lorn walks the gelding into the stables,
glancing around, looking for a hint of where to stable the gelding.

"Captain... I'll take your mount, if you would."  A youth emerges from
a stall, setting a pitchfork against the stall wall.

"Thank you."  Lorn hands the reins to the stable boy then unfastens the
two green bags from behind his saddle.

"He'll be in the second stall here."

Lorn fumbles for a copper.

"Oh, noser  We're paid by the Mirror Engineers."

"Well... thank you."

"You're welcome, scr."  The dark-haired youth smiles as he leads the
gelding toward the stall.

Lorn purses his lips, then lifts his gear and heads out of the
stable.

There are two officers' rooms empty, each with little more than a bunk,
a table with a lamp, and wall pegs on which to hang uniforms and gear.
Lorn chooses the second, seemingly slightly larger, and slides the bags
under the narrow bunk.  Then he closes the door, hoping that his gear-
and the sabre wrapped within it-will be safe for a time.  It should be,
but he wonders.  He'd once studied wards, years back, and read about
the use of chaos-formed order to create a light-shield.

Maybe he should try that-but not at the moment, he decides, as he heads
toward the officers' dining room.

Gebynet stands by a table for four with another Mirror Engineer,
apparently waiting for the Mirror Lancer captain.

Lorn crosses the room that holds four tables, all vacant except for the
one, and bows to the two engineers.

"Glad you could join us, Captain... Lorn, is it?"  ventures the
majer.

"Lorn.  I appreciate your taking the time to fill me in."

Gebynet inclines his head to the other engineer.  "This is Captain
Sherpyt.  He's in charge of the Second Heavy Engineers here at
Westend." The senior engineer gestures around the small dining area. 
"Both Lancer patrol companies are out at the way stations tonight." 
Then he snorts.  "Of course, each one's out seven out of eight nights. 
Much rather be an Engineer, thank you."

The three seat themselves, Lorn with Gebynet on his left, Sherpyt on
his right.

On the bare wood of the table are four bowls, four large spoons, four
heavy glass goblets, and a single bottle of wine-Byrdyn, Lorn suspects
from the color and the aroma he can smell as Gebynet fills the three
heavy glass goblets.

"The food isn't much," declares the majer.  "We all eat the same, but
the men's dining area is much noisier, and the service is better
here."

"Not much," suggests Sherpyt.  "That's why you always bring the
wine."

"Of course."  Gebynet smiles.  "While we're waiting, I'll start."  The
majer takes a sip of his Byrdyn.  "How tall was the shoot you fired?"

"Three cubits, maybe a shade more."

"Now... the Fifth Forest Company passed that area no more than two days
before, and they saw nothing," Gebynet points out, looking at Lorn.

"I don't know anything that will grow a cubit and a half a day," Lorn
concedes.

"It could be a root, or a seedling that was launched from the
Forest."

"If it's a root, you'll hear lots of heavy equipment moving in the
morning," adds Sherpyt morosely.  "We'll be working there for a good
eight-day."

Lorn does not speculate or reveal his sense that no root from the
Accursed Forest had been involved.  "I hope it wasn't a root."

"It could have been worse.  If you hadn't been there, that shoot would
have turned into a tree eight to ten cubits tall by the next patrol."

Lorn fingers his chin.  "I don't think all my fire lances could have
burned something that large down."

"That's where Sherpyt and his heavy equipment come in," suggests
Gebynet.  "But most don't grow quite that fast."  He pauses.  "You're
sure it was that tall?"

"At least.  It was shoulder high on the mounts."

The Engineer majer shakes his head, then takes another swallow of the
Byrdyn.  "It could be that we'll have another breakout period.  That's
when you get shoots, roots, and trunks falling across the wall
everywhere.  Stun lizards crawling into the nearby villages.  Cattle
killed by the big cats... all sorts of amusing things."

"How do you even find the cats?"

"We don't find them all.  That's why stun lizards and crocodators show
up in the Great Canal or in the rivers.  That's why there are giant
cats throughout this part of Cyador... but the offspring of those that
survive are smaller than those that first escape."  Gebynet's lips
twist into a crooked smile.  "The animals aren't the problem; the trees
and the vines and bushes are."

"Speak for yourself, majer," suggests Sherpyt.

"Ah... well, it shouldn't affect you, Captain Lorn, but the cats and
stun lizards seem to seek out people who handle chaos-mages especially,
and then engineers like Sherpyt who handle chaos-powered equipment."

"Have any attacked you?"

Sherpyt pulls back his sleeve.  A long red gash runs up his forearm,
disappearing under the white shimmer cloth  "There's another on my leg.
Two different attacks."

"That's another reason why all the Engineers on duty beyond the
compound carry the short fire lances in sheaths," Gebynet explains.

A server in solid green appears with a casserole dish, and a basket of
bread, then vanishes without speaking.

"Best we eat while it's hot."  Gebynet serves himself two ladlefuls of
the mutton stew, consisting mostly of mutton chunks, carrots, and some
other root vegetable that Lorn does not recognize by sight.  Gebynet
passes the casserole to Lorn, and breaks off a chunk of the rye bread.
"Eat hearty."

The primary taste of the stew is salt.  The carrots are orange mush,
while the roots have been cooked until they are soft masses held
together with stringy fibers.  Lorn alternates stew, bread, and very
small sips of the Byrdyn.

"Exactly what do engineers do here?"  asks Lorn after several
mouthfuls.  "Besides destroying growth that escapes from the Forest. 
Or is that all?"

"We're the ones who repair the wall if it gets breached.  That doesn't
happen often," the majer explains.  "We also repair anything else that
needs it."

"How often?"  Lorn persists.

Gebynet frowns, then wrinkles his forehead.  "Only about once or twice
a year, and those aren't big breaches-usually only a course or two of
stone-and replacing the cables.  That's the harder part because you
have to break the connections on two of the wards, and that usually
means replacing those as well."

Lorn lifts his eyebrows, hoping that the Engineer majer will add
more.

"Repeated chaos flows make anything brittle.  The wards have chaos
flowing through them all the time.  They're solid when they're in
place, but if anything breaks through the chaos net-or moves them-most
of them shatter."

Lorn takes more of the stew, and more bread, and enough of a sip of the
wine to provide a hint of seasoning, pondering what the two engineers
have conveyed.  "You're more like Magi'i than Lancers...."

"Almost all of the officers are about the same as third or fourth level
mage adepts," concurs Gebynet.  "At some point, it was suggested to
each of us that our talents might be better used in the Engineers."

"We're Magi'i with tools, Lorn," adds Sherpyt.  "With tools and with
far less status and power."

Lorn frowns.

"Have you ever seen a Mirror Engineer in Cyad?"

The Lancer officer shakes his head.

"You never will."  Sherpyt delivers his words in a matter-of-fact tone
that offers more caution than would any amount of bitterness or
emotion.  "When they need us to work on a fire ship it goes to the yard
at Fyrad.  The Magi'i handle chaos repairs in Cyad."

Lorn nods.

"Our talents are necessary, and best kept where they can be employed
most fully," Sherpyt adds.

"Just like those lancer officers who are unwise enough to reveal that
they can handle chaos," Gebynet adds smoothly.  "But enough of details.
I trust you understand why we wanted to let you know why we appreciated
your timely report on that shoot, and why such reports save us in the
Engineers from even greater... difficulties."

"I had not realized the speed with which the Accursed Forest grew."
Lorn takes a last mouthful of the stew, knowing he can stomach no
more.

"Until they have seen it with their own eyes, most do not," answers
Gebynet.

"It can be frightening," agrees Sherpyt, pushing his bowl away, and
taking a slow sip of the Byrdyn.

Lorn finds himself yawning.

"You have had a long patrol already, with another three days to go."
The Engineer majer lifts an empty glass.  "Do not let us keep you."

Lorn rises.  "I must thank you both for the wine, the hospitality, and
for enlightening me about my duties and the dangers that accompany
them."

"Our pleasure.  Our pleasure."  Gebynet's voice is warm, and his eyes
and mouth both smile.  "Anything we can do... please let us know."

"I will."  Lorn bows slightly, before he steps back toward his
temporary room.  "I certainly will."

LXVI

The almost-setting sun falls on Lorn's left shoulder as he rides
northeast along the outer perimeter road toward the white walls a kay
ahead-walls that mark the Mirror Lancer compound at Jakaafra.  The sky
above the compound is already darkening with clouds sweeping in from
the east.  A chill wind blows into the Lancer captain's face, a wind
bringing a raw dampness that foreshadows rain-or sleet.  Behind Lorn
rides a half-squad of lancers, just gathered in from their line abreast
formation, the senior ranker riding beside him.

Despite the warnings from the two engineers three days earlier in
Westend, neither Lorn nor any lancers in the squad have seen any other
sign of the Accursed Forest attempting to escape the confines of the
ward-wall.

Lorn's eyes flick to his right, toward the ward-wall itself where Kusyl
rides with the other half of the replacement squad, then back to the
compound ahead, and the white granite bulk of the chaos tower adjoining
the compound and looming over it.

"Not too far to go," Lorn offers, his words barely louder than the
sound of hoofs on the granite stones of the perimeter road.

"Noser  Should get there before the rain," replies Ubylt, the ranking
lancer in the squad.

A hundred cubits ahead, to Lorn's left, splitting off at an angle from
the outer perimeter road runs another road, to the northwest.

"That goes where?  Do you know, Ubylt?"

"To the town of Jakaafra, scr.  Folks use the outer road to get to the
towns around Westend.  Be faster that way."

Lorn nods to himself.

Hoofs clop on the hard granite of the road as Lorn and the half score
of lancers with him ride toward the compound, an oblong of light
compared to the towering darkness of the Accursed Forest just to the
south.

Kusyl brings his half of the replacement squad toward the compound on
the western kay-long connecting road that parallels the wall running
from the ward-wall proper to the white-granite bulk of the structure
housing the chaos-tower.  The stone glows faintly with the suffused
energy of chaos in the growing darkness of late twilight, a glow
invisible to those without Magi'i-like talents.

"Didn't see anything, scr, not on this last leg," the squad leader
reports to Lorn.

"We didn't either, and I'm grateful for that."

Lorn and Kusyl lead the recombined squad through the open gates.  The
compound at Jakaafra could almost be a duplicate of the one at
West-end, except that the gates are in the middle of the southern wall,
rather than in the middle of the eastern wall.

Two lancers are lighting the lamps on the wall behind the gates, and
lamps have already been lit on several of the low stone structures
deeper within the outpost.

"Stables that way, scr," suggests Kusyl, gesturing ahead and to his
left.

"Thank you."  Lorn urges the gelding leftward.

A heavy-set and jowled lancer waits by the stables, his round face
impassive in the light of the lamp in the holder to the left of the
door, his eyes cold as he surveys the approaching column.  He steps
forward as he catches sight of Lorn.  "You're the new captain, scr? 
For Second Company."

"I am.  Captain Lorn, squad leader."

"Olisenn, scr."  Olisenn's mouth smiles; his eyes do not.  "Senior
squad leader."

"Pleased to see you, Olisenn."  Lorn swings out of his saddle and
gestures to Kusyl.  "Squad leader Kusyl.  I believe he'll be leading
the second squad."

Kusyl dismounts quickly.

"Good to meet you, Kusyl."  Olisenn nods to the junior squad leader
before turning back to Lorn.  "You have the second room in the
officers' section, scr.  I'll be taking Kusyl to show him the quarters,
if that be to your agreement."

"Once the mounts are set, that would be fine."  Lorn nods to both squad
leaders.

Both bow before they turn away.

As in Westend, a stable boy scurries up to take Lorn's gelding, and he
has to remind himself to recover his gear.

Lorn walks from the stables, carrying his gear, and starts toward the
end of the barracks building that should hold the officers' quarters.
As he nears the lamp-flanked door on the south end, another lancer
captain emerges and struts toward Lorn.

The oncoming officer is dark-haired, slightly taller than Lorn, but
slender, with a thin mustache, and black eyes.  His uniform is tailored
to show a narrow waist, and the custom white boots shimmer, reflecting
the courtyard lamps.  He stops a good five cubits from Lorn.  "You must
be the new Second Company officer, I take it."

"That's right.  I'm Lorn."

"Meisyl.  I'm the one you're relieving.  You picked a good time to
arrive.  We just finished patrol."  ..?  "So we'll have tomorrow
standing down."

"Exactly."

Belatedly, Lorn lifts the hand with the seal ring, and starts to reach
for his orders.

"We can handle that in the morning."  Meisyl laughs, a languorous
sound, as if he finds the exchange both amusing and boring
simultaneously.  "I'll take you through the records and all the reports
that Commander Meylyd so enjoys."

"When you think it best," Lorn demurs.

"Tomorrow is early enough.  I won't be leaving until tomorrow afternoon
anyway."

"How will you get back to Geliendra?"  Lorn asks.  "You aren't riding
back by yourself?  Or taking a detachment of lancers for rotation?"

"Oh, no.  The rotated lancers won't leave for an eight day  I'll catch
a ride on the Engineer's small fire wagon on its next run for
replacement wards or whatever."  Meisyl shrugs almost delicately.  "It
only takes two days to get to Geliendra from here that way."

"You have the second room.  It's the same as the first, and when I
leave you can take your choice.  The third is smaller, and that belongs
to Undercaptain Juist.  He heads the First Company; they do the
domestic patrol.  He's been an undercaptain for a long while, but he
was promoted from senior squad leader when they did such."  Meisyl
dismisses Juist's promotion with a graceful wave of his long-fingered
left hand.

Lorn nods.

"I'll see you in the officer's dining room-just the two of us tonight-
after you're settled.  Olisenn will take care of the incoming men."

"We've discussed that," Lorn says.  "He was waiting for Kusyl and
me."

"Very conscientious, Olisenn is," Meisyl replies.  "Most knowledgeable
about many matters as well."  With another smile he turns.

Lorn picks up the green bags and begins to cross the courtyard,
following Meisyl's steps.  The wind has continued to rise, and the
faint splatt of rain on stone begins to fill the courtyard.

The second room in the officers' section is more spacious than that in
Westend, and it even has a wardrobe and a narrow desk with a separate
lamp in a bracket over the table desk.

After closing the white oak door behind him, Lorn unpacks his uniforms,
hanging the tunics in the space in the wardrobe and the waterproof and
winter jacket on the wall pegs.  The screeing glass goes under his
smallclothes in the wardrobe, but he leaves the Brystan sabre in one of
the two green bags that he folds and slips into the shelf under the
single bunk.  Then he goes to find the wash chamber where he shaves and
cleans up before repairing to the small officer's dining room.

Meisyl is waiting, but does not stand as Lorn approaches, merely
gesturing for him to seat himself.  Meisyl has a bottle of wine before
him, and there are two of the heavy goblets on the time-darkened but
bare and smoothly polished white oak of the table.

"That's one thing, Lorn.  You have to make arrangements for your own
ale or wine.  I'd suggest the chandler in Jakaafra.  His name is Duluk.
Very fastidious about his wines.  Sometimes he can even get
Alafraan."

"All the way from Escadr?"  Lorn lifts his eyebrows.

Meisyl laughs.  "I'll win a gold from Juist on that."

"The Alafraan's better than Fhynyco.  At least, I think so."

"Depends on whether you like body or bouquet better."  Again, Meisyl's
tone is almost bored.  "The Alafraan goes better with meat.  I like the
Fhynyco better with fowl.  Only desperate men drink Byrdyn."  He fills
the two goblets three-quarters full and nods to Lorn.

"Thank you."  Taking the nearest goblet, Lorn reflects that, while he
enjoyed Zandrey's Alafraan while he was stationed at Isahl, he has
never been desperate for any kind of wine.  "Desperate men do have
strange tastes."

A server in green appears with platters and cutlery which he sets on
the side of the table, quickly leaving and then reappearing with a
larger serving platter and two baskets.  "Sers?"

"Just put it down," Meisyl orders off-handedly.

"Thank you."  Lorn nods to the server, who bows and retreats.

Dinner is a platter with sliced mutton covered with a brown sauce and
boiled potatoes in one of the baskets.  The second basket holds bread-
cool.

"The other company here?  Juist's?"  asks Lorn.  "They patrol the
northeast perimeter?"

"Not except for the eight days when Second Company's on furlough."
Meisyl shakes his head.  "They're the peacemaking company for the
villages on the north side of the Accursed Forest.  Juist acts as a
justicer about half the time.  They also chase bandits... when there
are any."

"Peacemaking?"  Lorn raises his eyebrows.

"Once you get north of the Forest, there aren't that many towns between
here and the Westhorns or the Hills of Endless Grass.  It's almost like
a province.  So someone has to act as the Emperor's Presence.  Juist is
good at it; he understands those people."  Meisyl offers a
condescending sniff before he takes a small swallow of the purplish
Alafraan.

"So there's no Engineer detachment here?  Just the two Lancer
companies?"

"This is the only perimeter base that has no Engineers.  They send a
detachment here every third day to check the tower.  I'll ride back on
their fire wagon

Lorn wonders.  Is he stationed at Jakaafra for just that reason?  That
it is the only base without the engineers who are effectively low-level
adept mages?  Who else like him else has been stationed at Jakaafra?
How would he find out?

"How many engineers do they send up here?"

"Three or four, usually.  Mostly officers."  Meisyl breaks off a chunk
of bread and dips it in the brown sauce.  "You'll get to know them
all... such as they are."

"Has there been much trouble with the Accursed Forest lately?"  Lorn
takes a bite of the dry mutton, glad for the sauce.

"Not for a season.  Oh, you always have shoots and seedlings popping up
somewhere, but that's to be expected.  We haven't seen a limb bridge
in..."  Meisyl frowns.  "since late summer.  There are always a few
trunks falling over a season, but it's been a while lately.  So you
won't have many lancers left who are prepared for more than the
occasional order-assault."

"I suppose the records tell how long.... Where are the records on the
Second Company?"  asks Lorn guilelessly.

"You have a study.  Or you will tomorrow.  It's the building across
from the north end of the barracks.  Olisenn keeps the records on the
men, and they're in a chest in the outer study when he's not working on
them."  Meisyl looks at the already half-empty bottle of Alafraan.  "It
will be pleasant to return somewhere that one can get a decent wine
besides Alafraan."

"Where will you be going?"

"The port detachment at Summerdock.  My consort-to-be will be joining
me there, as my consort, then, of course."

"You must be nearing sub-majer."

"A mere formality."  Meisyl refills his goblet and glances at Lorn.

"No, thank you."  Lorn smiles, knowing he must be scrupulously polite
all the while Meisyl remains.  "Tell me about how you came to Jakaafra,
if you would."

"There's little enough to say.  I grew up in Fyrad, and went to the
Lancer Academy, as had my sire, and his sire...."

Lorn smiles and nods, taking another sip of Alafraan, one so small that
the wine never really passes his lips.

LXVII

Meisyl and Lorn stand in the rear study by the desk table.  Outside the
single window the morning is gray, and fat drops of rain splat against
the ancient glass panes.  Meisyl reads the single sheet of paper
drafted by Olisenn, then smiles, and affixes his signature before
handing it to Lorn, who reads it himself.  certifies that Meisyl,
Lancer captain commanding the Second Forest Patrol Company, hereby
relinquishes that command to Lorn, Lancer captain, and that upon
signature this four day of the ninth eight day of winter, in the year
one hundred ninety-seven of the founding of Cyad, Captain Lorn assumes
command of the Second Company, with all duties and privileges
associated thereto.... Lorn signs the bottom of the document, below
Miesyl, with scripted characters far less flamboyant than those of the
dark-haired captain who is departing.

"You have it all, Lorn, and I wish you well."  Meisyl's smile is
clearly one of relief.  He fumbles two bronze keys from his belt wallet
and extends them to Lorn.  "The first key here is the key to the
records' chests.  The second one is to the door locks for the officer's
rooms.  If you have any questions, I won't be leaving until late this
afternoon or tomorrow, depending on the engineers."

"Thank you.  I'll find you, if I do."

After Meisyl departs, Lorn looks over his study closely, for it is the
first individual study he has had in his duties with the Mirror
Lancers.  The room is small, seven cubits by seven, with only a narrow
table-desk set against the wall, and a single chair pulled up to be
desk, and a window with a chest-high sill behind the chair.  The sole
lamp is fixed in a bronze bracket on the wall over the desk.  Set on
the granite floor tiles, just in front of the desk, there is a foot
chest, two cubits broad, one cubit high and one deep.  A single armless
chair completes the study's furnishings.  With the exception of the
lamp, every item in the room is formed of white oak, and all hold the
gold of age.

Lorn nods and then steps out through the open door into the outer study
where Olisenn is seated at a larger table, an open foot chest on the
floor to his right.

"Yes, scr?"

"Captain Meisyl mentioned that you maintain two sets of records,
Olisenn...."

Olisenn smiles.  "Just one, scr.  There are two sets of records."  He
points to the foot trunk beside his work table.  "The ones I keep are
the individual personnel records.  There is one sheet on each lancer...
the lancer's name and rank, a simple physical description, place and
date of birth, his closest family, when the lancer joined, his term of
service, and past duty stations, and expected date of rotation.  The
reverse side is used for remarks, either for commendations or
disciplinary actions."  Olisenn lifts his ample shoulders.  "Now... I
have to make a sheet on each new lancer."

"The ones who arrived yesterday?"

"Yes, scr.  I'll start each sheet, and Kusyl will be here shortly to
finish them.  They all go here in this chest."  His hand drops to
indicate the foot chest to his right.

"And the other set?"

"Those are the patrol records in the chest in your study, scr.  Those
are the only records we keep.  The bronze key Captain Meisyl gave
you... it opens the lock on either chest."

"He mentioned that."  Lorn nods.  "Later today, or perhaps after the
first patrol, I'd like to read through your records."

"Whenever you wish, scr.  It would be better after we update the
records."

"I'll try not to impede your work."  Lorn turns and re-enters the
smaller rear study.  He closes the door, and then lifts the records'
chest onto his desk.  The key slides smoothly into the lock and turns
easily.

As Olisenn has said, the trunk holds the patrol records, a report on
each patrol, written and signed by the company's captain.  Leafing
through the most recent of these, Lorn notes that most of the time a
number of patrols have been reported on a single sheet, with little
more than the notation "Patrol on schedule.  No Forest activity,"
followed by "Meisyl, Captain, Second Forest Patrol Company."

Others have more description: ward cube crushed by limb, north 45 east.
Killed small stun lizard, seared seedlings, found giant cat tracks, but
no cat.  Sent messenger to First Engineer Company at Eastend.  Held
station on fallen limb until Engineers arrived.  No casualties... two
ward cubes destroyed by double limb, north 323 and 324 east.  One giant
cat attacked second squad.  Cat killed.  Two other cats fled as Second
Company arrived.  Stun lizard tracks noted.  Sent messenger to First
Engineer Company Eastend.  Held station until Engineers arrived.
Casualties: 2. Kyscyt killed by cat at ward-wall.  Onymt slashed, will
probably lose right arm... Lorn leafs through the reports more quickly,
more trying to get a feel for the pattern of what has happened with the
Accursed Forest than deeply analyzing the reports.  Roughly three years
earlier, patrol reports for nearly three eight days have been signed by
Olisenn, as senior squad leader.  Lorn picks up the report just before
the first one signed by Olisenn, but, like so many of the others, it
merely states, "Patrol on schedule."  It is signed, "Dymytri, Captain,
Second Forest Patrol Company."

After studying Dymytri's last report, Lorn flips through the papers
more rapidly until he reaches Dymytri's first report-only three seasons
before his last.  Then he looks at the reports before that-four eight
days worth, all signed by a senior squad leader named Fyondr. The
previous head of Second company had been Undercaptain Zylynt, who had
been in command only a few eight days more than a year.  Zylynt's
demise, unlike Dymytri's, is listed in the first report signed by
Fyondr: "Casualties: 2. Undercaptain Zylynt, killed by giant stun
lizard when fire lance failed.  Lancer Hyun, killed by lizard while
supporting Undercaptain..."

Abruptly, Lorn comes to the end of the Patrol reports.  After a moment,
he nods and replaces the files in the small foot trunk and closes it.
"Olisenn?"

After a moment, the heavy squad leader opens the door and lumbers into
the rear study.  "Yes, scr?"  He bows slightly following his words.

"The Patrol reports only go back about five years," Lorn observes.

"Yes, scr.  We just keep five years here, sometimes almost six, but
since you were scheduled in, Captain Meisyl sent off the older ones
last eight-day.  They're all in Majer Maran's files in Geliendra."
Olisenn nods.  "It keeps matters easier here."

"I can see that."  Lorn smiles.  "Thank you,"

"That's not a problem, scr.  It's what I'm here for."  Olisenn nods and
waits for a moment before asking, "Is there anything else, scr?"

"No, thank you."  Lorn stands.  "I'm going to inspect the compound,
Olisenn.  I'll be gone for a while."

Olisenn's eyes lift to take in Lorn.  "Would you prefer me to accompany
you?"

"I don't think that's necessary.  If I have questions, I'll ask you
when I get back.  You and Kusyl have more than a few records to update
with all the replacement lancers that arrived."

"That is true, scr."  The senior squad leader turns and walks back out
through the door, closing it behind him.

Lorn replaces the Patrol reports in the foot chest and locks it,
replacing it on the floor where it had been, then opens his door and
steps out into the outer study.

"Scr!"  says Kusyl, who has apparently just arrived.  "Just keep on
with getting the personnel records in order, Kusyl, Olisenn.  I'm going
to get more familiar with everything in the compound."  Lorn nods and
steps past the junior squad leader out into the short corridor that
leads out to the courtyard.

The rain that had been falling earlier in the morning has given way to
a fine and cold drizzle.  Lorn readjusts the summer garrison.  cap and
steps out into the courtyard, heading toward the stables.

The mist-shrouded courtyard remains empty as Lorn crosses the damp
stones to the stables, where he eases through the barely open sliding
door into the warmer and drier air of the stable.  He blots his
forehead and glances around, then begins to walk farther back into the
stable.  The main corridors are swept clean, and each stall contains
fresh straw.  He glances upward, but he sees no cobwebs, or any piles
of dirt in the corners.

"Scr?  Is something wrong?"  The thin-faced blond-haired stable boy
appears, a worn broom in his right hand.

"Not a thing."  Lorn glances toward the stall where the gelding is.
"Since I'm new here, I'm just trying to learn about things.  What's
your name?"

"Suforis, scr."

"I'm Captain Lorn, Suforis.  How long have you been here?"

"I only started here when Captain Dymytri was in charge... winter turn
when I was twelve.  Say the captain afore him was nice, too, but I
didn't know him."

"Do you like it here?"

"Yes, scr.  So long as I keep the stable clean and the officers' mounts
and the spares groomed, and all of them fed, Clebyl doesn't look my
way, and that's fine by me.  Lesyna-she's agreed to be my consort next
winter turn, and Clebyl says I can be the assistant compound keeper if
I keep working good.  Haven't had an assistant here in two years.
Assistants get the second quarters with the kitchen."  Suforis smiles
brightly.

"How many stalls do you have?"

"Stable has two score and twelve-enough for two companies and a half
score spares.  Not that many, though, 'cause Undercaptain Juist only
has a score and a half for the domestic patrol.  Says he doesn't need
that many, really, but I'm not supposed to know such."

"He must not have much trouble."

"Almost never.  Towns north of here real peaceable, scr.  Good reason
to live here.  They say some of the rankers settle down here when they
get through."

"How are the mounts?"  Lorn gestures toward the gelding.

"Yours be a good' un scr.  Most are.  Have to rotate the mount the big
squad leader rides, even if he gets the biggest...."  Suforis shakes
his head.  "Other'n that, n' getting' the farrier up here from Jakaafra
regular like... well... take care of the mounts, and they take care of
you.  Get to ride the spares... make sure that they get exercise... it
be a good life...."

"Good."  Lorn smiles.  "Anything I should know?"

"Well... scr... not that I'd be knowing, but I heard tell that if'n you
run into a stun lizard best you stay leastwise fifteen cubits back.
Cats don't matter much... have to get claws into you, and if'n they
do..."  Suforis shrugs.

"I appreciate the advice, Suforis.  If there's any way I can help
out... let me know."

"Thank you, scr."  The young man bobs his head.

"Thank you."  Lorn turns and slips back out into the courtyard and the
drizzle.  Looking up into the clouds, he nods abruptly and heads back
to his quarters.

Once he crosses the courtyard and enters his quarters, Lorn locks the
door, then opens the wardrobe and extracts the screeing glass Jerial
had stolen from their father's study and given to him.  Carefully, he
sets it on the desk and studies it.  Can he do what he knows can be
done?  What his father and the Senior Lectors can?

Finally, he pulls up the chair, seats himself, and concentrates on the
circular mirror.  His thoughts go to the enigmatic Olisenn.  Lorn
doesn't want to try Maran unless he becomes proficient.

The glass fills with a grayish mist, which silvers into a blank and
bright surface reflecting nothing.  Finally, a small image swims into
view-two squad leaders at a table.

Lorn swallows, surprised, and loses his concentration.  A blank glass
reflects his own perspiring face back at him.  A single drop of sweat
falls on the glass.

He can do it!

He leans back in the chair and takes a deep breath.  How can he develop
and use the skill... without revealing that he possesses it, for
revealing it will certainly create greater incentives for the senior
Magi'i and Mirror Lancer officers to ensure his death-and the Second
Company records illustrate a high mortality for company officers-a
mortality higher than for the average lancer, and far higher than it
would be reasonable to expect.

LXVIII

In the grayness of dawn in late winter, Lorn leads his white gelding
from the stable in the first way station on the northwest side of the
Accursed Forest-exactly thirty-three kays southeast of the compound at
Jakaafra.

Olisenn is waiting, standing by the oversized mount that will bear
him.

"It looks like another cool morning, Olisenn," Lorn offers.

"Yes, scr.  It won't be long before the Forest truly stirs."

"I wouldn't be surprised."  Lorn waits for whatever the senior squad
leader has in mind.

"You intend to keep riding with the second squad and Kusyl, scr?"  asks
Olisenn.

"It seems like a good idea for now," Lorn temporizes.  "You have the
experience to command the first squad, indeed all of Second Company,
should anything happen to me.  Kusyl does not."

"But I cannot offer easily any insights."

"That is true, but perhaps you can continue to share them in the
evenings at the way stations  In that fashion, all can benefit."  Lorn
smiles easily.

"I will as I can, Captain."

"I'm sure you will, Olisenn, and we all appreciate your knowledge and
experience."  With another smile, Lorn mounts and then guides the
gelding to his right, to where Kusyl has begin to form up the second
squad.

"Scr?"

"I'll be riding with second squad today, possibly for the entire
patrol."  Lorn shrugs.  "We'll have to see how things go."

Kusyl nods.

Once both squads are formed up and mounted, waiting in way station
courtyard under the heavy but formless gray clouds, Lorn gestures for
Kusyl and Olisenn to bring their mounts nearer.  He waits until they
have reined up before he speaks.  "This morning, second squad will ride
the wall position; first squad will do the perimeter."

"Yes, scr."

"Yes, scr."

"Let's go."

The sound of hoofs on stone echoes for a brief time as Second Company
rides through the gates and toward the ward-wall, each squad deploying
into the spread line-abreast formation used for surveillance of the
border of the Accursed Forest.

Lorn rides about twenty cubits to the right of Kusyl, closer than the
normal spread of fifty.  Despite the lingering dampness, the ward-wall
is dry and sparkles in the indirect light filtering through the
low-lying clouds.

The sun continues to struggle to burn through the mist left from the
rain of the night before, but without complete success, so that the
second squad rides along the ward-wall under a sky that shifts from
dark to bright gray, then almost brilliant white, before it turns
darker once more.

One stretch of wall looks precisely like another, white-gray blocks
evenly matched, topped with crystal wards that flicker chaos.  The wall
stretches southeast, seemingly an endless line to the horizon.

ZZZZzzzzzpt!  Lorn frowns as he turns toward the sound above the wall.
At a second loud zapping sound, he glances toward Kusyl.  "Kusyl?"

Noting Lorn's expression, Kusyl calls back an answer.  "One of the big
flower flies scr, the bloodsucking ones.  Some reason, they can't cross
the wall.  Heard an engineer explain it once, something about the
bloodsuckers coming with the firstborn, and that there aren't any in
the Forest."

"I'm not sure how that makes sense," Lorn says slowly, his eyes still
on the wall along which the gelding carries him.  "The chaos barrier is
there to keep the Forest in.  So why would it choose an insect that's
not part of the Forest?"  Why would and how could the chaos barrier
choose anything?  He frowns.  Does the Forest choose to destroy foreign
insects?  Why?  Or would it destroy any foreign body that crosses the
ward-wall?

Kusyl shrugs with both hands.  "That, I'd not be knowing, scr."

The two continue to patrol, silently, since the distance between them
makes conversation uncomfortable.

The second squad patrols another kay of wall and dead land then
another.

"Scr!... Scr... Scr!"  The yell comes from near the end of the line, a
good six hundred cubits to the northeast, relayed by nearer lancers.

"Line halt!"  Kusyl orders.

As the lancers rein up to a halt, Lorn guides his mount away from the
wall to the lancer with the raised fire lance  "Yes, lancer?"

The lancer points to the ground.  On the dead land soil is a single
bone, and a line of giant cat tracks.  The bone-looking like it might
have come from a sheep or goat-has been there for a time.  There are no
other signs of the giant cat's prey, and the tracks are indistinct,
blurred by the light rain of the night before.

"Just keep an eye out.  It looks like that happened yesterday "

"Yes, scr."

Lorn turns his mount back toward the ward-wall, gesturing for Kusyl to
give the order for the patrol to resume.

The morning warms until the air is almost uncomfortably damp, and sweat
collects under the edge of Lorn's white garrison cap.

The clop-clop-clop of hoofs offers a regular, almost soothing rhythm as
the second squad continues in a spread formation that stretches from
the road wall in a double line abreast, each rider a good fifty cubits
from the next.

Lorn suppresses a yawn.  He can understand why officers can get killed
on Forest patrol duty, lulled into boredom by the endless sameness and
suddenly confronted with the danger of a great cat or a giant stun
lizard.

He has individual bits of information that should allow him to form a
better image of the situation he faces.  He just needs to look at them
differently, but it is difficult to think after a day of painstaking
and mind-numbing patrol, looking for any trace of the Forest's
breakout.

Suddenly, he straightens, fully erect in the saddle.  That, too, is
another bit of information.  He thinks about what the Engineer Gebynet
had said, something about patterns... of immense breakouts following a
shoot as vigorous as the one he and his squad had destroyed on the
southwest side of the Accursed Forest.

Patterns?  What are the patterns?  He shakes his head.  The other
question is who knows what the patterns are?  Who has all the Patrol
records?

Lorn nods grimly.

LXIX

To Lorn's right, a good dozen kays northeast, high and white puffy
clouds scud along, swiftly, in the direction of the Westhorns.  Between
the clouds, sunlight falls in shafts that angle toward that distant
ground.  Directly overhead, the early afternoon's green-blue sky is
mostly clear.  At times, the slightest hint of a breeze wafts by Lorn,
but the air has been largely still, despite the fast-moving clouds
above.

Beyond the dead land and the outer perimeter road, the grass, and even
farther away, the fields and wood lots are slowly greening, with the
winter-gray leaves returning to their spring colors and the new leaves
and shoots showing a lighter and brighter shade of green.

Lorn looks to his left, along the line of the second squad lancers
riding the dead land inside the perimeter road.  Beyond them are the
riders of the first squad.  Lorn can even make out the rounded bulk of
Olisenn near the ward-wall.

After nearly seven days on patrol, with a day's respite at Eastend-a
virtual duplicate of Westend-Lorn will be happy when they reach the
compound at Northend, although it is always called the compound or
Jakaafra, just as the compound at Geliendra is always called by the
name of the nearby town as well, rather than the official name of
Southend.  "Scr!  Shoots ahead!"

"Shoots ahead!... ahead!"  The report is echoed by the other lancers in
the patrol line and relayed toward Lorn and Kusyl.

Lorn shakes his head as he uses his heels to nudge the gelding into a
trot toward the lancer with the upheld fire lance

"Line halt!  Line halt!"  After barking the order, Kusyl turns his
mount to follow the company commander.

Both the squad leader and Lorn rein up a good thirty cubits short of
the shoots sighted by the lancer.  At less than two cubits high, the
twin green fronds are far shorter than the one Lorn had seen and has
destroyed on his ride patrol to Jafaafra, and they seem far more
slender.  He can sense only a hint of the black order that looms behind
the ward-wall, but he studies the greenery for a long moment.  "Scr?"

"Have them flame by duads," Lorn orders Kusyl.  "Yes, scr.  Form up!"
Kusyl orders.  "Prepare to flame by duads!"  After the lancers of the
second squad reform from their line into the standard column of twos,
Kusyl looks to Lorn.  The company captain nods.  "Advance, and
discharge lances!"

Under the warm afternoon sun, Lorn watches, but the shoots wither under
the chaos flames of the fire lances leaving nothing but a black ash
that disintegrates into a power, and then disperses under a light
breeze that fades into stillness.

Lorn watches the ashes disperse, letting his chaos-order sense probe
the ground, but there is no sense of any underlying well of dark order.
Then he pulls out a message blank and turns his mount toward the
ward-wall to note the ward location before dispatching a messenger to
the Engineers at Eastend.  He knows that the Engineers will find
nothing, but he will not suggest that, not at all.  He also adds the
location in his own small notebook.

He erases the momentary frown from his face as he rides toward the
ward-wall-and Olisenn.  The frailty of the shoots bothers him,
especially after he has sensed the incredible dark order that lurks
behind the whitened granite stones of the ward-wall.

LXX

Lorn sets aside the bronze-tipped pen as he finishes the second of the
two patrol entries, then lays the paper at the side of his study desk
to dry.  He turns in the chair and glances out the window at the clouds
flowing from the south and building and darkening to the north.  With
the warm dampness of the morning and the clouds, he has little doubt
that it will rain, perhaps for several days.  But the Second Company
will have to set out on patrol the next morning, rain or no rain.

He turns back to the desk, fingering his clean-shaven chin before he
lifts the thin manual that Maran had given him, already showing smudges
and scuffs.  Inadvertently, he compares that to the ancient and
spotless silver-sheened volume that Ryalth had presented to him, and he
shakes his head, forcing his thoughts back to the patrol manual as he
slowly searches for something he had seen-or thought he had-when he had
first read it.  a Lancer company captain cannot halt breaches in the
ward-wall, nor can he prevent the inimical creatures of the Accursed
Forest from escaping such breaches, but he must do all within his power
to ensure such creatures are destroyed before leaving the dead land
barrier and before they can inflict damage upon the people of Cyad or
upon their livestock and lands.

A wise captain will manage his deployments in such fashion so as to
assure that his lancers are exposed to no unnecessary danger and so
that casualties are minimized while making sure that as many creatures
as practicably possible are destroyed before they can create harm....
Lorn snorts as he sets down the manual.  Destroy the creatures, but
don't lose many men, and a wise captain will best know how to do that.
Except that the manual offers no real tactics for such situations-just
cautions.

After more time of silent contemplation, he stands and lifts the foot
chest containing the Patrol reports.  Those of the past five years, he
reminds himself as he sets the chest on the clear side of the desk and
unlocks it.

He re-seats himself, then begins to leaf through the older reports
again, trying to check a nagging thought.  He reads the last season of
reports from Captain Dymytri, checking the events reported by the
captain more closely, trying to focus on details that might just tell
him something more.  limb fallen short of guard wall from northwest
mid-point Chaos tower... Casualties: 2.... trunk [twenty cubit
diameter] smashed through chaos cables and a single course of wall
stones... attack by three giant cats and one stun lizard... one cat
escaped... casualties: 4.... long limb bridged ward-wall seventy cubits
into dead land night leopards attacked Engineers.... Lorn frowns. Night
leopards?  He has not seen references to such before.  Or had he
overlooked them?  He continues studying the patrol reports, apparently
showing more than a score of problems.  double trunk breach... rendered
five hundred cubits of ward-wall inoperable... Casualties: 15.... limb
fall in heavy rainstorm... casualties: 4.... Just as suddenly, the
reports revert to the standard, "Patrol on schedule.  No Forest
activity."

Lorn sits back in his chair, thinking.  From late spring to early
summer, three and a half years earlier, Dymytri's reports chronicle an
outbreak of limb and trunk fallings which claim scores of wards, nearly
three score injuries to lancers and engineers, and at least a score of
deaths.  In that time period, several dozen wild creatures from the
Accursed Forest escape.  Then, the outbreaks cease.  And shortly
thereafter, with nothing on the record, one Captain Dymytri disappears
or is killed.

Lorn replaces the records, then adds his own latest report, and closes
the foot chest.  He stands and replaces the chest on the floor before
the desk, then walks to the window, looking at the thickening clouds,
and at the Second Company banner that flies above the barracks.  The
green-trimmed pennant with the numeral two in the center is held out
almost stiffly by the steady wind, whipping but little.

Thrap!  At the knock on the study door, Lorn turns.  "Yes?  Come in."

Olisenn enters, leaving the door open.  He bows.  "A scroll for you,
Captain Lorn.  It arrived by private local messenger."

Lorn steps forward to take the missive that the senior squad leader
extends to his captain.  Although Lorn can sense that the seal has been
removed and then reheated somehow, he accepts the scroll effortlessly
and without hesitation, stepping back and sideways so that he stands
over the desk.  "Thank you."  He breaks the blue wax without looking at
it, even before Olisenn can move or retreat to the front study office,
and lets the wax fall on the golden-aged oak surface of his desk.

Lorn begins to read.

Honorable Lancer Captain Lorn... I am pleased to inform you that the
goods you ordered from Ryalor House have arrived and that, once you
have inspected them, we will be more than pleased to deliver them to
whatever destination is your desire.... Lorn manages neither to smile
nor frown.

"Scr?  Do you require me further?"

"Oh... no.  I'm sorry, Olisenn.  It's a private matter... not about the
Lancers.  It's about some things I ordered."  Lorn smiles at the heavy
senior squad leader.  "You can go."

"Yes, scr."  Olisenn bows deferentially, then leaves the inner study,
gently closing the door behind him.

Lorn continues with the scroll.

We would suggest a slight haste in dealing with the case of Fhynyco and
the two cases of Alafraan, but remain at your bidding, honored scr.

The missive is signed and sealed by one Dustyn, factor in spirits and
liquids, with the phrase beneath the seal, "Off the main square,
Jakaafra."

Lorn nods slowly to himself.  Although he does not doubt that the wines
are from Ryalth to make his duty easier, he wonders what else will come
with the shipment... perhaps a scroll that has not been already read.

LXXI

The warm misting rain of spring enfolds the Palace of Light, and within
the private study of the Emperor and his consort, Toziel stands by the
wide window overlooking the harbor he can barely see through that
mist.

He turns, but does not step onto the Analerian wool carpet of subdued
green and gold geometric designs that has graced the study from the
time of the Emperor Alyiakal.  "I am troubled.  I should not be
troubled by this trifle, and yet I am.  You have noted that my sleep
has not been as it should be."

"That I do know."  The Empress Ryenyel smiles knowingly, and
affectionately.  "What trifle?"  she asks after a moment, looking up
from the black oak desk at which she is seated, the sole item of
furniture within the entire Palace of Light made of that dark oak.

"The murder of a trader."  A thin and humorless smile crosses the
Emperor's mouth.

"That is a trifle.  Yet... if it bothers you, it may be the first shoot
of a noxious vine.  Tell me of it."  She smiles warmly.  "That is what
you wish, is it not?"

"I have no secrets from you, my dear."

"Nor should you, not if I am to assist you."

"You... you have always been of great assistance, and without it, as
both we know...."  He shrugs and half-turns to study the mist.

"Enough of your flattery, my dear, welcome as it always is."

Toziel clears his throat.  "BluoyaI'mer brought the matter to my
attention several eight days previous, and he mentioned it but once.
Yet I have not dismissed it.  The first heir of the Yuryan Clan of mer
chanters was murdered nearly a season ago.  He was killed by a sabre
tinged with chaos, a lancer's sabre, say the Magi'i.  The day after the
murder someone re-claimed an iron Brystan sabre that had been plated
with cupridium.  This mer chanter used a stolen Dyjani trade plaque as
authority and paid ten golds for the work.  The cupridium master and
his journeyman have been truth read by several Magi'i, and the truth
reading confirms their tale.  Both master and journeyman swear that the
blade was in their care and not ready when the murder was committed. 
The journeyman also swears that the enumerator who picked up the blade
was unfamiliar with weapons."  Toziel turns back from the window and
watches his consort.

"Who is the new heir?"  asks Ryenyel.

"Veljan-a man far more suitable, according to all.  Yet..."

"Yet, what?"

"His consort is the daughter of Liataphi, the Third Magus of the
Magi'i.  Liataphi has no sons and heirs.  And this Veljan is honest and
straightforward.  Too honest and straightforward, from all I
discover."

"That is far too obvious, dear one," observes Ryenyel.  "Liataphi is
too intelligent and too devious to have done such.  He would see that
such a ploy would illuminate him as if with a score of lamps."

"Then... who wishes to plant such an appearance?  And why?"

"Who else would benefit, if far less obviously?"  Ryenyel slips the
cupridium-tipped pen into the holder on the left side of the desk.

"Rynst'alt, clearly."

Ryenyel shakes her head.

"Oh... Luss'alt, you think?"

"Luss'alt would benefit, but he could not have created such a scheme. I
would guess that the one with the most to gain would be Kharl'elth."

Toziel nods.  "When you put it that way..."

"What thinks your Hand?"

"He says but little, saving that it would appear to be a matter of
trade and personal affairs, and trade rivalries best be solved by
traders, and that using the Hand to meddle in trade or the personal
lives of traders can lead but to disaster."

"Has he been right in what he advises?"

"More often than not."

"So it is unlikely to be a plot hatched here, though many here may seek
to benefit by such."  Ryenyel smiles but faintly.  "Now, my dearest...
that is the fashion in which it makes the most of logic, but not all
plotters are of such logic.  You must..."

"I know... set small traps to see who understands, and would use such,
or who refuses to understand."  Toziel's laugh is mirthless.

"Then, too," Ryenyel continues, "there is the matter of the sabre. Does
anyone know who could wield such?  None of the Magi'i would dare, for
the deadly danger it would pose to them.  None of the lancers would
benefit from the attributes of such a weapon.  And the mer chanters
could neither wield it nor comprehend its power."

"So there are two plots?"  Toziel frowns.  "And the second plotter a
descendent of Alyiakal?"

"Only in spirit," Ryenyel says quietly.  "You must tread carefully, for
I would wager that neither knows of the other, nor should they."

After a moment of silence, they both nod.

Outside the mist lightens as the sun begins to struggle through the
spring rain, and the greenery of the City of Light begins to reclaim
the first city of Cyador from the gray-green of winter.

LXXII

The rains of the previous day have passed, but air is warm, humid, and
heavy, even in the early morning, as Second Company leaves the first
way station southeast of Jakaafra.  The dead land is still muddy, with
pools of shallow standing water, and with early mosquitoes humming
everywhere.  Mist hangs over and around the Accursed Forest to Lorn's
right, and above the ward-wall.  The sun is barely above the fields to
the east, a fuzzy orange-white ball in a sky more a mist-shrouded green
than blue.

"Be a hot day, specially afternoon, scr," says Kusyl from where he
rides to Lorn's left.

"Very hot."  Lorn glances toward the ward-wall nearly a kay away and at
the mist that shrouds the massive trunks beyond the wall.  Something
does not feel right.  He glances toward Kusyl.  On the morning of the
second day of the patrol, the second squad is deploying inward from the
outer perimeter road, while Olisenn's first squad will deploy in a line
outward from the ward-wall road.  "Kusyl-this morning, I'll be riding
with the first squad.  I'll ride with second squad this afternoon."

"Yes, scr."  The squad leader's cheerful voice indicates nothing.

Spreading the lancers into a line abreast and slogging through the mud
will make for a long day, but keeping them on the roads will mean that
too much of the Forest's activity could go undetected, particularly
roots or new shoots carried above or beyond the ward-wall during the
storm of the night before.  Lorn turns the gelding southward and urges
him to catch up with Olisenn and his overlarge beast.  Absently, he
brushes away an inquiring mosquito.

Zzzzzzpp!

Lorn does not wince at the sound of a flower fly being destroyed by the
chaos-net cast upwards by the wards, but the sound does remind him that
the peaceful scene is not what it seems.

At the sound of another mount nearing, Olisenn turns in the saddle and
offers a puzzled glance as Lorn rides toward him.  "Scr?"

"I'll be riding with first squad this morning."

"As you command, scr."

The two ride silently and slowly as the line abreast forms and begins
to ride parallel to and out from the ward-wall.

"Even it up, there!"  Olisenn calls-more than once.

Lorn does not offer suggestions, or orders, but watches.  Once the line
is formed, and he and Olisenn ride on the opposite sides of the wall
road, Lorn turns his attention to the ward-wall itself.

Although the wall looks the same as it always does, it is not.  The
relatively even pulses of chaos-if one can call any chaos energy
regular-that are carried within the cupridium conduits and cast upwards
in the net that restrains the Accursed Forest are different.  While the
chaos pulses are always different, always changing, usually each pulse
does not differ greatly in power or duration.  Lorn is not certain
those are the right terms, but are closest to what he feels.  This
morning, there are larger pulses, much larger ones that feel shallower
and some that feel like they are scarcely there at all.  After a time,
he studies the road and the dead land past Olisenn to his left, but
there are no signs of shoots or seedling-or roots.  Nor fallen trunks.
As the lancers ride, more slowly than ever, through the mud of the dead
land and as the morning passes, Lorn continues to watch, trying not to
overstrain his eyes and senses, but knowing that all is not well
somewhere along the wall.  He also knows that to reveal that will leave
him all too vulnerable in the seasons ahead.  So he rides and watches.
And the spring heat and hot dampness builds.  While the discomfort
rises, at least the dead land mud has become less viscous, and progress
somewhat less laborious.

Sometime after midmorning, Lorn nods, finally seeing a line of darkness
on the horizon, a line that should not be there.

"Have them watch more closely," he finally tells Olisenn.  "Eyes sharp
now, the captain says!"  orders the senior squad leader.  "Eyes
sharp!"

"Scr!  Trunk down!  Trunk down!"

The line of blackness has become clear to all the lancers-a huge trunk
jutting more than a hundred cubits out from the ward-wall-a trunk
thicker at its uprooted base than the portion of the wall itself that
is visible above ground.

Lorn glances at the nearest ward marker, then shakes his head.  The
closest engineer company is beyond the breach in the ward-wall, and to
send a messenger past that without an escort would be foolhardy,
considering the possible wildlife that the forest has had time to send
forth.  "Olisenn.  Form up by duads on the road!"

"Scr?"

"On the road!  A lancer won't have much chance against a cat in this
muck."

The senior squad leader nods, then turns.  "First squad!  Duads on the
road!  Duads on the road!"  Olisenn's voice carries, and lancers guide
their mounts toward the Lancer captain and the first squad leader.

"Send a messenger out to Kusyl," Lorn adds.  "Have him form up by duads
on the perimeter road-and have the messenger stay clear of the trunk."
Lorn blots away the sweat that has been gathering under the brow of his
garrison cap.

"Yes, scr."

Lorn lets the gelding carry him ahead of the reforming squad, his
fingers brushing the fire lance in its holder, reassuring himself that
the weapon is fully charged.  His eyes go to the ward-wall, and then
his senses.  While the chaos-net is still intact, its web is fragile,
and, closer to the fallen trunk, that chaos will do little to halt
whatever the Accursed Forest intends to cast across the wall that will
become little more than mere granite in a kay or so.

"Vyon!  Message to squad leader Kusyl.  From the captain.  They're to
form up by duads on the outer perimeter road and advance.  They should
be ready to repel creature attacks!"

"Yes, serAs a second thought, Lorn also checks his sabre, then glances
at the huge trunk once more.  The closer the two squads draw to the
massive trunk-a grayish brown wall so dark it is almost black-the more
Lorn begins to understand deep within himself the concerns expressed by
both Maran and Commander Meylyd about the Accursed Forest.  The trunk
dwarfs any fire ship Lorn had seen and, were it upright, could shade
the Palace of Light with fifty cubits to spare.

Small catlike animals are racing down the trunk, jumping clear even
before they reach the twisted and crushed branches of the brilliant
green crown.  Some are already clear of the toppled foliage.

The fallen trunk towers above the ward-wall a good fifteen cubits, a
dark wall stretching perpendicular to the ward-wall.  Only the lowest
course of the ward-wall's granite is visible.  Yet the granite of the
wall appears to have held, except that it has cut into the trunk like
an axe, and the trunk is firmly wedged in place.  Then, Lorn reminds
himself, under the five-cubit visible section of the wall is fifty
cubits of granite foundation laid on solid rock, and reinforced with
chaos bound in order.

"Prepare lances," Lorn says quietly to Olisenn.

"First squad, lances at the ready.  Lances at the ready!"

Two blackish gray shapes seem to elongate from the trunk, then
separate.  Lorn blinks, to realize that two huge cats sprint toward
Lorn, their long bounding strides narrowing the distance, far faster
than a galloping horse or a racing fire wagon

"Lances ready.  Prepare to discharge!"  Olisenn's orders are flat.
"Discharge at will."

Forcing himself to be calm, Lorn lifts his fire lance and focuses it on
the leading giant cat.

Hssstt!  A single narrow beam of chaos flies, seemingly curving to
strike the cat.  The half-charred body tumbles into a heap.

Hhsstt!  The second cat begins a spring before Lorn's followup bolt
takes it in the chest.

Lorn pulls the gelding toward the wall, and turns in the saddle,
checking to see where Olisenn's lance might be pointed, but the squad
leader's eyes remain on the trunk that lies less than two hundred
cubits away.

"Company halt!"  Lorn orders.

"Company halt!"  Olisenn echoes.

"We can do five abreast for now," Lorn suggests.

"Five abreast!  Stay on the road."

Lorn glances to the northeast, but can see little except the formation
of the second squad-and a series of flares that are fire lances
discharging.  He turns to study the trunk wall ahead.

A pack of smaller cats-the night leopards?-each perhaps ten stone,
charges toward the first squad.

"Discharge at will!"  Lorn orders, wheeling his gelding so that he can
bring his lance to bear while continuing to watch Olisenn.

"Discharge at will.  Short bursts!  Short bursts!"  Olisenn orders.

Hssst!  Hssst!

Three of the cats fall.  A fourth comes up under one of the men's
lances, and the lance falls, and before the lancers-or Lorn-can react,
the man is down.

Three quick fire lance bursts sear across the smaller cat's back and
upper shoulders.  The cat spasms, then falls still.  The fallen lancer
does not move.

"Stop discharges.  Save your lances!"  snaps Olisenn.

Two of the cats flash back toward the gray-brown trunk, scramble
lithely up it, and then sprint northward along the tops of the trunk
away from the ward-wall and toward the crushed vegetation that is the
crown.

"Gythet's dead, scr," one of the lancers announces to Olisenn.

"Strap him over his mount, quickly," responds the squad leader.

Lorn turns his mount to the northwest, paralleling the massive trunk,
but at a good hundred and fifty cubits.  He glances back at Olisenn.
"We need to ride around the crown.  That's to make sure we can send a
messenger safely to Eastend."

"Ah... yes, scr.  There are many creatures in the tops of the fallen
trees.  They wait until it falls, and then they hurry down and hide
there, lying in wait."

"I'm sure they do.  We'll try to give it a wide berth."

"Reform!  Lances at the ready.  Follow the captain."

At Olisenn's orders, Lorn lets the gelding slow, until he is riding to
the left and slightly behind Olisenn.  The hint of a frown appears on
the squad leader's face, then vanishes, replaced with an expression of
professional competence.

Neither Lorn nor Olisenn speak as the column rides out along the trunk
to where the smashed limbs of the tree's crown form a small hill.

The captain wants to shake his head, but refrains.  In the scurry and
the attacks by the cats, he had forgotten that Olisenn presents as
great a danger as do the creatures of the Accursed Forest.  Lorn has
his own fire lance ready, if but with a fraction of its original chaos
charge, and from where he rides he can cover both the squad leader and
survey the fallen forest monarch.

Kusyl rides to meet them.  His left sleeve bears a rent, but shows no
blood.  "Scr."

"How many casualties?"  Lorn looks from the squad with at least one
empty-saddled mount to Kusyl.

"Two dead, scr.  Two wounded."

"One dead, scr.  One wounded," Olisenn adds.  "Thus far."

At the sound of crackling and rustling branches, all three men turn in
their saddles toward the middle of the mound of branches and leaves.  A
single branch, more than two cubits thick, falls outside the crown,
snapped by whatever stirs within the vegetation.

The light wind out of the south carries a musky bitter scent to Lorn,
that and an acrid odor of crushed leaves.

"Prepare to discharge lances!"  Lorn snaps.  Anything that moves
branches a cubit thick and whose power and mass move the entire fallen
crown is something that will require more than a single fire lance

"Prepare to discharge-"

The last words of Olisenn's orders are lost under the crashing of
displaced limbs and vegetation.

MMMMMmmmmmmmmmmnnnnnn.... A soundless, yet paralyzing mental scream
slams into Lorn, and his mount.  The gelding seems to stagger and steps
sideways.  Lorn wants to hold his temples, so intense is the pain, and
for a moment he cannot see, for what feel like knives ripping at his
eyes.

He blinks through the involuntary tears at the monster that emerges
from the crushed crown, strewing aside vegetation like wet paper.

A huge gray lizard slithers from the crown, except that it is so large
that it appears at first as if the gray trunk were turning and
growing-or extending itself toward Kusyl and the second squad.  Fully
five cubits at the shoulders, and more than twenty cubits in length,
the lizard pounds toward the second squad.  A black tongue whips out,
looking like a lash.

Before the mental order attack, three of the second squad's mounts have
actually gone down, one to its knees.  A lancer scrambles for his
lance, not realizing the lizard's speed.  The webbed and clawed left
foot flashes, and the lancer vanishes under it.

Lorn winces.  "Discharge lances!  Now!  Discharge lances!"

Hssst I A single line of fire flare from one of the second company
lancers, but the chaos flame rolls off the gray hide of the monster
stun lizard.

Hssst!  Hsst!

In response to the lines of chaos fire, the lizard swings its head from
side to side, then pauses, as if calculating which lancer will be its
next victim.

Almost without thinking, Lorn sheathes the fire lance and pulls out the
lancer sabre, willing the chaos that surrounds him and the lizard into
the blade.  He nudges the gelding.  The mount shivers.  His heels dig
into the gelding's flanks, and the white starts forward, slowly, then
moving into a quick trot.

Lorn rides toward the lizard, angling from behind its head on the left
side.  He hopes the lizard will hold for just an instant.

Abruptly, the giant snout turns, impossibly quickly, toward the lancer
captain.

Lorn hurls the sabre with all the force he can muster.  The
chaos-infused cupridium sabre spins lazily end-over-end as Lorn wills
the point to strike the lizard's head or eye point first.  Even as he
wills the impact, he is leaning in the saddle, turning the gelding away
from the stun lizard's gaping mouth and hot breath, and angling toward
the second squad, pulling his own nearly depleted fire lance from its
holder.

MMnnnnnnnnnnnn.... The stunning soundless metal scream is followed by
an enormous grunt.  Then the lizard convulses, thrashing, and a webbed
forefoot claws at the sabre that protrudes from the platter-sized
eye.

Lorn can sense the raging flames within the lizard's skull-as order and
chaos war.

He reins up the shivering gelding.

Kusyl looks blankly at his captain.

"Discharge fire lances  Now!"  Lorn snaps at Kusyl.

"All fire lances  Now!"  echoes the junior squad leader.

"Aim at the head!"  Lorn commands.

"The head!"  Olisenn's and Kusyl's orders merge.

Firelance beams play across the thrashing lizard, winking out of
existence as lance after lance is depleted.

The long tail lashes sideways and high.

Lorn cannot even yell before it smashes through a lancer from the first
squad who has ridden too close.  Then that tail, like a serpent, or an
independent being, thumps up and down in slow beats, pounding itself
into the ground, and pulping both dead lancer and mount.

Mmmnnnn.... The last mental scream rocks Lorn, both with its dying
force, and the sense of despair.

Lorn takes a deep breath.

The lizard twitches... and keeps twitching.... "Hold your discharges!
Hold discharges!"  Lorn orders.

The lancers watch the dying lizard.

The squad leaders watch the lizard, the crushed mound of the tree's
crown, and the trunk that leads back to the Accursed Forest.

Lorn watches the lizard, the crown, trunk, and the senior squad
leader.

There is a sigh, like a dying wind, and a last twitch, and the monster
lies inert.

Lorn and the two squad leaders still study both the crushed vegetation
of the crown and the lizard's corpse for a time before any speak.

Finally, Lorn clears his throat.  He has to do it twice before he can
speak.  "We need to check the far side as well."

Both squad leaders nod slowly, reluctantly.

"Form up!"

While Second Company forms up, Lorn rides toward the dead lizard,
looking for his sabre, but there is no sign of the weapon.  The lancer
captain nods and eases the gelding away from the dead beast.

Second Company rides slowly around the crown of the fallen tree.  While
there are rustles from the crown, and the acrid odor of crushed leaves
comes and goes, nothing emerges from the twisted and splintered
vegetation.

The company reins up on the southeastern side of the gray-brown
trunk.

Lorn beckons to Olisenn, who edges his mount closer to the captain.

"We still need to send a messenger to the Engineers."

"Ah... yes... scr."  Olisenn blots a face drenched in sweat.

Kusyl does not speak, but nods.

"We'll have to keep watch here until the Engineers arrive."

"Yes, scr."  both squad leaders reply, neither with great enthusiasm.

Lorn takes out the grease stick and begins to jot down the particulars
of where the trunk fell, and the ward locations, on the blank message
scroll.  Finally he hands it to Olisenn.  "Warn the messenger to ride
well clear of anything else that may have fallen."  Lorn pauses, then
adds, "Have a half-score escort him around the trunk."

"Yes, scr."  Olisenn eases his mount away from Lorn and toward the
first squad.

Kusyl's eyes stray to the enormous bulk of the dead stun lizard.
"Never... never seen anything that big...."

Neither has Lorn, and he nods, slowly.  "You wonder how many more there
might be waiting on the other side of the wall."

"Rather not think on that, scr."  Kusyl glances from Lorn to where
Olisenn briefs the lancer acting as messenger.

It will be a long afternoon and a longer night, Lorn suspects.

LXXIII

Lorn does not sleep well, or long, and is up even before dawn, as
worried by the comparative silence as by the bulk of the trunk and the
section of ward-wall that does not function.  He ignores the griminess
he feels because the little water they have has to be carried from
three kays to the north and does not even try to shave or wash, but
merely takes a long swallow from his water bottle.

In the gray that will precede a clear dawn, with only a hint of mist
rising from the Accursed Forest, he walks past the duty sentry toward
the granite of the ward-wall.  While he carries both a sabre that had
belonged to one of the dead lancers, and his fire lance he knows he
will need neither, and doubts that knowledge as well.

As he faces the wall, dry and smooth in the dawn despite the dew that
coats the wall road and the ground, he can sense where the chaos flows
end, perhaps a hundred and fifty cubits to his left, at the last
functioning ward.  Without the flaring webs of the chaos net, Lorn can
sense the order-chaos depth of the Accursed Forest, and the solid
granite wall by itself seems a frail barrier to the height and power of
that intertwined order and chaos.

Lorn cocks his head, trying to recall words from his days as a student
magus.  "Always called the Forest order-death... never mentioned twined
order and chaos," he murmurs to himself.  He looks up again, both with
chaos-order senses and eyes, but he is not mistaken.  The Forest has a
depth of order wrapped in chaos, or chaos wrapped in order.

Despite the breach in the chaos net, as he continues to study the
Accursed Forest, Lorn senses no probes of either order or chaos, and no
creatures massing beyond the granite.  He studies the Forest for a time
longer, until the sun begins to rise above the dead land and fields to
his left, but the silent presence and lack of overt threat does not
change.  When the sun falls on his shoulder and side, he turns and
walks silently back toward the bivouac area.

By the time he reaches the tie lines where the mounts are tethered,
Olisenn is waiting, looking as bedraggled as Lorn feels.  "You were at
the wall, and it is not warded there.  Was that wise, captain?"

"Probably not."  Lorn laughs.  "I'll learn, I'm sure."  He pauses as
Kusyl walks toward them.  "Good morning, Kusyl."

"Good morning, scr."

"I checked with all the sentries before I left."  Lorn's eyes fall on
Kusyl.  "I was inspecting the ward-wall this morning.  It's been quiet
all night."

"Might be more creatures this morning," hazards the junior squad
leader.

"There might be," Lorn agrees, looking at Olisenn.  "How long before
the Engineers arrive?"

"They have fire wagons that can make good speed on the perimeter roads,
and I would judge that they might arrive by midday-if they left last
evening or early this morning."

Lorn nods.  "Both of you set some pickets, say, four from each squad.
Just use the fire lances to keep anything away.  We're not going to try
to destroy anything else right now."  His smile is wry.  "We don't have
the charges for that."

"Noser we don't," Kusyl says strongly.

Olisenn frowns, but nods.

"I'm going to take a few men and ride back around the crown."  Lorn
unties the gelding from the tie line  "Does it matter who I ask?"

"Noser"

After picking four men, nearly at random, Lorn checks the girths and
the bridle and mounts the gelding.  He and the four lancers slowly ride
around the mass of tangled branches and crushed and uncrushed leaves
that had formed the crown of the enormous tree.  They circle the
tangled mound at a distance of well over two hundred cubits from the
nearest greenery.  While there are occasional rustlings, and more than
a few birds, including two enormous vulcrows that burst from the
branches, they see no other creatures.

On the northwest side, a dozen vulcrows are tearing at the carcass of
the stun lizard, but the birds scarcely raise their sharp hooked beaks.
Two night leopards slink back to the branches as the riders near the
dead creature.

After studying the area of the struggle with the lizard, and
determining, again, that there is no sign of his lancer sabre, and no
other creatures visible, at least, Lorn turns the gelding.  "We'll ride
back now."

As the five riders return to the main body of Second Company, Lorn
watches the dead land and the battered crown, but while the rustlings
continue, nothing emerges except occasional birds that he does not
recognize, not that he has ever spent much effort in studying avians.

Olisenn and Kusyl are waiting, eyes expectant, as Lorn and his lancers
reins up.

"Nothing.  Vulcrows, two leopards that scurried back to the tree, some
birds."  Lorn shrugs and dismounts.  He pulls out a water bottle that
will need to be refilled before long and takes a swallow, then blots
his forehead.  "We watch and wait for the Mirror Engineers."

He is blotting his forehead again, in the midday heat, when a voice
rides through the silence.

"Scr!"  calls the duty sentry, pointing to the north.

Lorn unties the gelding and mounts, as do the four lancers he had
selected earlier.  From the saddle he can see three fire wagons
approach, crossing the dead land from the outer perimeter road, and
angling toward the point where the trunk and the ward-wall intersect.

"Mount up!  Engineers are here."

"Mount up!"  Kusyl and Olisenn echo Lorn's orders.

Lorn fingers his grimy and stubbly chin, then eases the gelding toward
where the three fire wagons are slowing along the inner road that
flanks the ward-wall.  The third fire wagon is armored in cupridium
plate and tows an armored two-wheeled device with a tubular projection
that can only be one of the special fire cannons that Commander Meylyd
had mentioned.

A thin-lipped engineer majer steps out of the first fire wagon  He
glances around, then spots Lorn, and marches toward the mounted lancer
captain.

"Majer Weylt, Captain.  I'm in charge of the engineer detachment at
Eastend."  The thin lips twitch into a smile.  "When we received your
message, I had some questions about the size of the trunk.  But your
lancer messenger was insistent, and I decided to come with the large
fire cannon  I'm glad we brought it."

"Captain Lorn, Majer.  We're glad to see you."  Lorn smiles.  "The tree
seemed large, but I'm new to this.  I just followed the procedures." He
calls up what he has read.  "You'll cut away the trunk from the
ward-wall...."

"Exactly."  Weylt bobs his narrow face up and down.  "We make sure that
the road is clear first, and then destroy the crown to make sure it
harbors no creatures, and that there's no residual order poison."

"What do you need from us?"

"Just a loose guard while we set up.  That's so we're not surprised.
Then you pull back and let us get on with it."

"Yes, scr."

"Good."  The majer almost spins on one boot and heads back to his fire
wagon

Lorn remains mounted, with Kusyl to his left, as the half-score of
Mirror Engineers unhitch the armored fire cannon on the wall road, and
wrestle it into a position roughly three hundred cubits from where the
trunk rests on the ward-wall.  One turns a crank-like handle, and a
hatch opens on one side of the cannon.  The engineer vanishes into the
hatch.

Another rolls a long cable from the fire wagon that has towed the
cannon to an assembly on the rear of the cannon and inserts it into a
square bracket.  Lorn senses that the cable is cupridium sheathed in
something, almost a shimmer cloth substance of many layers, clearly
designed to keep the chaos flows within the cable.

Seemingly from nowhere, Majer Weylt appears, again marching briskly
toward Lorn.  "Pull your lancers back behind the cannon, Captain- and
out from the ward-wall," orders the thin-lipped Mirror Engineer.  "At
least a third of a kay back.  Have them ready for more creatures."

Lorn wonders about how many more cats and stun lizards will rush from
the crown and the upper trunk, but only nods.  "Yes, scr."  He turns
and stands in the saddle.  "Second Company!  Pull back to seven hundred
cubits!"

Half-wondering just how accurate any of them will be judging seven
hundred cubits, Lorn guides Second Company to a position perpendicular
to the trunk, closer to a half kay, he suspects, back from the crown
itself.  He turns his mount and reins up, watching Olisenn from the
corner of his eye, and observing the engineers as well.

Two of the three fire wagons roll back down the ward-wall road, almost
a kay, leaving only the fire cannon and the fire wagon to which it is
connected.  All the Mirror Engineers have vanished, except for one, who
then climbs inside the hatch door on the right side of the cannon and
closes it behind him.

Of the score of Engineers, none remain in the open, Lorn notes.

HHHSSSTTT!  With a whining, whooshing hiss, a single jet of flame
slices through the dark order of the trunk.  The heat radiates even to
where the lancers are reined up.

Clunnnnnk!  The ground shakes, a half kay away, as the trunk outside
the ward-wall drops onto the road and the dead land

A second jet of flame-somehow both blue and black-flares skyward from
where the trunk has contacted the ward-wall.  Smaller explosions
follow, and sections of wood, shredded and twisted, begin to fall.

A dull clunking announces the impact of a ten-cubit length of branch on
the armored shell of the fire cannon

Lorn turns in his saddle and studies Olisenn.  Is the heavy-set squad
leader pale?  Lorn's eyes go to Kusyl, who is definitely pallid and
tense.  Then his eyes go to the tree's fallen crest, where the branches
keep twisting.

In an instant, a half-score of the night leopards appear at the edge of
the crown.  Abruptly, all charge the Second Company, clearly without
any hesitation, as if they had known all along where the lancers
were.

"Discharge lances at will!  Short bursts!  Short bursts!"

"Short bursts!"  Olisenn adds in an even louder bellow.

Nine of the leopards fall before reaching the Second company.  The last
slams into a lancer's mount, but the man keeps his head and drives his
sabre down and through the beast's neck, awkward as the blow is.

The mount screams, a long slash across the point of her left shoulder,
but the lancer manages to remain mounted, and slowly gentles the
mare.

The rest of the lancers reform into their squads, watching the
vegetation, but no other creatures emerge.

Discreetly readjusting his garrison cap, and blotting his forehead,
Lorn glances back toward the cannon, where the engineers are working to
reposition the weapon.  "Steady!  They're going at it again!"

Another whining whistling blast follows, and a gap ten cubits wide
appears between the ward-wall and the remainder of the trunk.

The second blast dislodges no more creatures, although a number of
birds circle the trunk.

There is no sign of the vulcrows-none at all.  Once more the engineers
reposition the fire cannon and after each searing blast do so again
until they have opened a gap between the wall and the remainder of the
trunk that is more than fifty cubits wide.

Once the gap has reached that width and the inner road is clear, the
Engineers turn the fire cannon  The armored fire wagon slowly tows it
outward until it is roughly a hundred cubits from the crushed crown,
between the crown vegetation and Lorn's company.

The Engineer Majer strides from the cannon toward Lorn, and Lorn rides
forward to shorten the senior officer's walk.

"Thank you, Captain."  Weylt smiles.

Lorn waits.

"Captain Lorn... now we're going to fire the crown.  It's going burn
hot.  I'd leave your men where they are until the worst dies down.  You
might get another giant cat or two.  You might not."

"We'll be ready, scr."

"Fine."  Weylt turns and walks back to the fire wagon

Shortly the cannon screams again, except the fire flares into a broad
fan, and immediately flames begin to shoot up from the center of the
mangled limbs and leaves.  As the fires spread, one section of the
branches shudders, and a long gray-black giant cat leaps from the
twisted branches and greenery, padding right past the armored fire
cannon

The cat pauses two hundred and fifty cubits out from the spreading
flames.  Its dark eyes study the Second Company, lined five abreast at
least good five hundred cubits away.  Then, as suddenly as the others
had attacked, the giant cat lopes almost due north, well away from the
lancers and the engineers and their equipment.

Lorn has no intention of chasing it, not with the state of his
company's fire lances

The flames continue to rise, crackling a fierce orange, and thick and
acrid black smoke, twined with plumes of lighter gray smoke, rises into
the now-clear green-blue sky, forming a haze that begins to spread.

At the ward-wall, several engineers are working, replacing the smashed
crystal wards with others, ignoring the flame that flares three hundred
cubits northward.

The flames are subsiding, leaving the trunk seemingly untouched, when
the engineer majer returns, striding briskly toward Lorn, who urges the
gelding forward again.

The majer begins without greeting, without preamble.  "The wards are
working, and there's little enough more we can do."

"Do you just leave the trunk now?"  asks Lorn.

The majer laughs.  "We're through with it.  So are you.  There's a
timber factor who has a contract on anything like this.  There will be
a team out here in a couple of days, and within two eight days you
won't know that there ever was a fallen trunk here.  Good timber, they
say.  I wouldn't touch it, not with the residual dark order in it, but
they ship it down the Great Canal and then sell it to the coastal
traders.  Get a good price, I understand.  The fees they pay help pay
our stipends, Captain, yours and mine."

Lorn nods.  He understands the logic, but he wonders about the mer
chanters profiting on the deaths of lancers.  "This seems like a large
trunk," he observes, watching the Majer.  "Is it, scr?"

"Thirty-five cubits at the ward-wall.  That's the biggest I can recall.
Be a few loads of solid timbers for the mer chanters  The majer smiles
ironically.  "More than a few, I'd wager.  They can handle it.  I
wouldn't.  Once this dies down, we'll be returning to Eastend, and
you'll be free to continue your patrol."

"We'll need to recharge or replace our lances at Eastend," Lorn says
quietly.  "There probably aren't a dozen lances left with charges."

"That we can handle, Captain.  I'll see that a full set of lances is
waiting for you."

"Thank you."

"Least we can do."  The majer nods, then turns and leaves Lorn.

Lorn rides back to the second company.  They will have a long ride to
the next way station a very long ride, that will last well into the
evening.  Even when the return patrol is over, he will have no rest,
not with the need to request replacements and draft letters to the
families of the fallen lancers, and to handle all the other details
that must wait until Second Company returns to Jakaafra.

LXXIV

In the late afternoon, Lorn leans forward in the saddle.  He rubs his
forehead, ignoring the burning in his eyes, and the itching of salty
sweat on the two-day old stubble on his neck.  Then he straightens,
forcing himself erect as Second Company nears the locked and sealed
granite structure that is the northeast midpoint chaos tower.  "too bad
didn't put a way station here..."  murmurs a lancer riding behind Lorn.
 "make too much sense..."

Lorn motions, and the second squad turns out from the ward-wall and
follows the road that loops around the midpoint chaos tower and the low
wall that connects it to the ward-wall.

In the fading afternoon light, as he rides within fifty cubits of the
solid granite walls, Lorn studies the bulk of the midpoint chaos tower.
Is it his imagination, or does the granite of the tower somehow seem
less solid than the tower at Jakaafra?  He frowns, concentrating on the
tower with both sight and fatigued chaos-senses.  He shakes his head.
"Scr?  You all right?"  asks Kusyl.

"I'm fine."  He offers a laugh.  "As fine as any of us are, anyway." As
Kusyl nods and looks away, Lorn's lips tighten.  From what he can tell,
the midpoint chaos tower has failed.  There are no pulses of chaos
energy flowing in the cupridium conduits from the building to the
ward-wall, although the wards along the wall proper still hold and
flare their chaos net.

The flow of chaos must be traveling all the way from Eastend and
Jakaafra.  Is that why the Accursed Forest is now attacking along the
northeast ward-wall?  Or had the tower failed years earlier and the
failure been kept silent?

Again... what he does not know would fill endless scrolls.  He rubs his
forehead once more, knowing that they still have another sixteen kays
to cover before they reach the way station

LXXV

As the Second Company forms up in the courtyard of Eastend, its
compound a mirror image of Westend, Lorn walks toward the long building
that holds the Mirror Lancer detachment, wondering if anyone will even
be there.  The corridors and studies are empty, and Lorn heads back to
the officers' dining area.  With each step, his boots click faintly on
the polished stone floor of the corridor.

There, at the sole occupied table in the dining area, he finds Majer
Weylt and two engineer captains.  All three rise as he approaches the
table.

"Captain," offers Weylt, "can you join us?"

"I fear not," Lorn says.  "My company is forming up now."  He bows to
the majer.  "I just wanted to let you know that I appreciated your
having the fire lances ready, Majer.  Your efforts were most
welcome."

"Thank you for your courtesy."  Weylt's eyes twinkle above his thin
lips.  "I see you found another... appropriate... sabre."

"There were some spares in the armory here."  Lorn's lips quirk
momentarily.  "I'm not the first, I gather."

"You broke yours?"  asks the squat captain to Weylt's right.

"Ah... not exactly.  I put it in a stun lizard's eye, and it dissolved,
I think.  At least, I couldn't find it after the lizard died."

"You... killed a stun lizard with a sabre?"  "and most of the charges
in my company's fire lances Lorn adds smoothly.  "We still lost more
than a few lancers."

"The lizard was over twenty cubits in length.  I saw the carcass before
we burned it," Weylt adds.  "Most impressive."  He nods his head.  "We
won't keep you, Captain, but it has been a pleasure meeting you and
working with you."

"And you, also."  Lorn returns the nod with a bow and smiles.  "You
will pardon me if I hope we do not work together too often?"

Weylt laughs.  "Indeed!  Indeed.  Have an uneventful return patrol."

"We hope to.  Thank you again."

With a smile and a last bow, Lorn turns and walks back to the courtyard
where he reclaims the gelding from the stable boy  He checks his gear,
leads the gelding into the courtyard, and then mounts quickly.

While the courtyard remains in shadow, the sun has risen, and the dead
land beyond the gates is flooded with light as Lorn lets the gelding
carry him toward the waiting lancers.  He frowns as he considers he
should have looked for Weylt earlier.  There are so many little aspects
to his job that are not in the manual and on which he has not been
briefed.  Then, he supposes, that is true of many positions within
Cyador and the Mirror Lancers.

"Wondered where you were, scr," offers Kusyl as Lorn rides up to the
head of the column where both squad leaders wait.

"I was offering our thanks to the head of the Mirror Engineer
detachment for the replacement fire lances and sabres.  He was out on
his own patrol yesterday, but he was the one who ensured they were
waiting for us."

Kusyl nods.  "He seems solid enough, if a bit brisk."

"He has to cover twice as much ward-wall as we do," Lorn points out.
"Is everyone ready?"

"Yes, scr," reply both squad leaders.

"Let us go.  First squad will start on the wall."

"First squad, advance!"

"Second squad..."

As Second Company rides through the gates and northwest toward the
ward-wall, Lorn wonders what awaits them on the patrol.  Was the other
Engineer majer-Gebynet-correct in predicting a rash of excursions by
the Forest?  Or will the ward-wall offer another quiet and uneventful
patrol?

Thinking about the non-functioning midpoint chaos tower, Lorn doubts
that many patrols will be uneventful, but ensures that a pleasant smile
remains on his face as he rides beside Kusyl.

LXXVI

In the late early morning, the sun hangs just over the Accursed Forest,
its towering trees revealed and then obscured by the scattered and
white puffy clouds that scud westward.  A cooler breeze blows out of
the northeast, reminding Lorn that the season is spring, where summer
heat is followed by chill and then by rain or mist... and then by wind
or more heat, before the irregular cycle begins once more.

To Lorn's right, the two squads of lancers are spread in a long line
abreast, searching the dead land for signs of Forest activity beyond
the ward-wall.  To his left is the ward-wall, that seemingly unchanging
low rampart of chaotic permanence that stretches northwest to the
horizon, reflecting as it has for generations the vision and the skills
of the Firstborn.  And the power of the Accursed Forest.

The low clopping of hoofs and the breathing of lancer mounts are the
only sound beside the sighing of the breeze that is slowly changing
into a cold wind.  Lorn hopes the chill will be dry, and not one that
leads to cold rain or sleet.

He looks to the wall and notes the chiseled marker: N 480 E. They have
another ten kays to ride before they reach the midpoint of the
northeast ward-wall-and the granite structure housing a chaos tower
that does not work.

His shifts his weight in the saddle and glances once more to his right,
out at Olisenn and the first squad, riding methodically across the
dead-land, looking for signs of growth Lorn doubts they will find.

As the sun rises, so does the wind, and the cold air, sweeping off the
winter heights of the distant Westhorns, chills more than the spring
sun warms, but the Second Company's lancers ride steadily northwest.

After covering another two kays, Lorn glances toward the wall, and both
his eyes and chaos-chorder senses study it.  The chaos pulses through
the cupridium cables are less regular.  Does that mean another fallen
trunk?  A breach in the wall itself?  Trouble with a chaos tower?  Or
his own imagination?

He shivers as another cold chill washes across him-that of someone
using a chaos glass to scree him.  Maran?  Or a higher-level magus from
the Quarter of the Magi'i.  He maintains a faint smile until the chill
fades.

Is the screeing because of what he senses?  Or is what he senses
independent of the user of the chaos-glass?

Whatever it may be, he must wait.  Still, Lorn gestures for Kusyl to
ride closer.

With a puzzled expression, Kusyl follows Lorn's gesture and guides his
mount almost beside Lorn's gelding.  "Scr?"

"Do you think we should space the men farther apart when we go five
abreast?"  Lorn asks.  "Say another cubit or so apart?"

Kusyl frowns.  "Too far, and there is a greater risk that their lance
fires will strike each other if leopards or cats get too near."

Lorn nods, his eyes on the wall ahead, waiting until he can make out
the faintest hint of darkness where the ward-wall touches the horizon.
Finally, he turns once more to Kusyl.  "There's another tree trunk
down, across the ward-wall up ahead.  I can just barely see it."

Kusyl stands in his stirrups and squints.  "I see nothing."

"In a kay or so you will," Lorn assures the junior squad leader.

They ride nearly another kay and a half before, abruptly, Kusyl peers
forward.  "There is a trunk.  You have good eyes, Captain."

"It's in knowing what to look for," Lorn replies.  "I didn't know what
that was when I started.  Let's form up on the road, and send a
messenger out to Olisenn.  He might have seen it, but he might not
yet."  After a moment, he adds.  "We can ride five abreast on the road
for a while, until we get nearer the tree."

"Form up on the road!"  Kusyl orders.  "On the road, five abreast!"
"not another fallen tree..."  "would draw unlucky bastard of an
officer..."  "more angel-fired cats... stun lizards..."  "don't know
that..."  "by Steps of Paradise, I do... better believe I do...."  Lorn
ignores the mutterings, keeping a pleasant smile on his face as he lets
the gelding carry him forward.

"Formed up, scr," Kusyl reports.  "A messenger is riding out to first
squad."

"Good.  We'll move out from the wall once we get within a half-kay of
the trunk."  Or sooner if the chaos-net of the ward-wall is gone.

Lorn scans the area ahead as the second squad rides forward, checking
the ward-wall, the area around where the trunk spans the wall, and the
crushed green crown of the forest giant farther to his right.  While he
sees small creatures scurrying from the Accursed Forest down the trunk
to the crown area, Lorn cannot be sure what they might be, other than
they do not seem to be large enough to be stun lizards or the giant
cats.

Some three hundred cubits from the trunk, Lorn raises his hand and
reins in the white gelding.  "Squad halt!"

In the silence, he studies the ward-wall, noting to himself that the
chaos-net has vanished.  While the fallen trunk is not so large as the
one they had encountered on the first half of the patrol, even from
where he is reined up, he estimates that the diameter is still greater
than fifteen cubits.

Beyond the trunk, he can see the bulk of the non-functioning midpoint
chaos tower.

"Don't usually see 'em this close to a chaos tower," offers Kusyl.

"That's our luck," Lorn offers.  "Send another messenger out to
Olisenn.  Have them form up five abreast and ride toward the crown.
We'll wait here a moment while I write out the message to send back to
the Engineers.  Then we'll ride toward the crown, say, a hundred cubits
off the trunk."

"Yes, scr."

Lorn finishes the message as quickly as he can and hands it to the
squad leader.  "Here."

In turn, Kusyl rides to the rear of the column and turns the scroll
over to a thin lancer, who immediately turns his mount and heads back
toward Eastend.  The squad leader rides back to Lorn and reports, "On
its way, scr."

Lorn nods.  Both men know that the Engineers will not arrive until late
the following day, if then.  "Let's see what this trunk holds."

"Yes, scr.  Lances ready!  Forward at a walk!"

The horses' hoofs powder the dead soil, not quite crunching the
lifeless ground, turning up white streaks of the stones and stones of
salt once poured onto fertile soil.

They have covered no more than fifty cubits, and are still close to two
hundred cubits from the trunk, when two of the giant cats bound from
the trunk, one to the left of the line of lancers, and one to the
right.  Both animals angle toward the lancers, running at speeds that
seem to halve the distance with each breath.

"Discharge at will!"  Both Lorn and Kusyl shout the orders
near-simultaneously.

Hhssst!  Hssst!  Firelance bolts flare toward the cats, and all appear
to miss.

"Short bursts!"  Lorn adds.

Hssstt!

One cat falls, growling, before the fire lances converge on it.  The
other cat dashes sideways at an incredible speed and sprints northward
through the gap between the two squads, heading away from the
lancers.

"Hold your discharges!"  Kusyl orders.  "This one's dead, and you'll
need 'em!"

The fallen cat seems slightly smaller than the one that had escaped the
fire lances although it is hard to tell with most of the forward part
of its body charred.

"Lances ready," Lorn orders, urging the gelding northwest, edging along
the trunk toward the crushed mound of vegetation that had been the
crown-a circular matted mass clearly smaller than that of the tree they
had encountered on the outward patrol.

Perhaps fifty cubits short of where the tree's crushed upper branches
begin lies a separate branch, nearly two cubits across, Lorn judges,
and more olive colored and without smaller branches, almost like a huge
vine torn from the Forest.

The branch undulates along its entire length, creating salt smears on
the dead soil, and the lizard-like triangular head of a serpent rises
beside the darker gray-brown of the tree trunk.  The jaws open,
extending wide enough to swallow a man.  "mother of the Steps!"
"barbarian's she-boar..."

"Advance and discharge at will!  No closer than thirty cubits," Lorn
adds.  "Aim for the head.  Short bursts!"

"Short bursts!"  adds Kusyl.

The serpent curls, as if coiling for a strike.

Hsstt!  Hssst!  Hsst!  The fire lances probe, searing the unprotected
serpent's head, which twists and turns as if trying to avoid the
chaos-fire.

Then the head lifts and turns toward the lancers, slowly moving
outward, trying to strike at the source of its pain.

More lines of fire converge on the slow-moving giant snake, and a
series of shudders ripple up and down its length.  The huge triangular
head, blackened beyond any recognition, drops onto the dead land with a
dull thump!

"Hold your discharges!  Hold discharges!"  Lorn orders.

He and Kusyl watch carefully from a good thirty cubits, but the
shudders that shake the serpent slowly die away.  Measuring the dead
snake with his eyes, Lorn gauges the serpent to have been at least
forty cubits in length.

He looks up as Olisenn leads the first squad toward them, at a slow and
deliberate pace, far too slow, Lorn decides, although he says
nothing.

The heavy-set senior squad leader reins up and looks at the dead
serpent, then at Lorn.  His mouth opens, then closes, then opens again.
Finally he speaks.  "One of those... I have not seen before.  Nor have
I heard of such."

"If you and the experienced lancers haven't heard of these, I hope we
don't run into more of them," Lorn says quietly.  "It wasn't near as
bad as a giant cat or a stun lizard.  It was much slower.  You need to
stay a good thirty cubits back."

"That I will remember."  Olisenn nods, his eyes still on the snake.

Lorn tenses, turning the gelding toward the bottom of the tree's crown,
where the branches have begun to rustle.  "Lances ready!"

Even as the words leave his mouth, with another rustling of branches, a
half-score or more of night leopards bound toward the two squads.  One
mount in the first squad shies sideways, and several lancers struggle
momentarily to bring their horses back into formation.

"Discharge at will!  Short bursts!  Short bursts!"

Hsst!  Hssst!  Hssst!... Short fire lance bursts crisscross, forming
almost a wall against the smaller leopards-smaller only in comparison
to the giant cats.

Before Lorn can issue another order, the fire lances are silent.  Eight
of the leopards are down, dead.

Lorn turns the gelding, watching as the two surviving night leopards
sprint northward, their paws barely touching the soil, leaving the
faintest puffs of dust as they make their way toward a distant wood
lot

"That be not good," observes Olisenn, "the Forest creatures amid the
wood lots and fields of the people of Cyad."

"No," Lorn agrees, "but we have no way to track them or catch them."
And forty lancers and fire lances are not enough to deal with all that
accompanies one of the tree trunks that topple, or are toppled, from
the Accursed Forest across the ward-wall.  "I'd be surprised if we have
charges in half the fire lances

"More like a third," suggests Olisenn.

"If that," adds Kusyl.  "And half a patrol to go yet."

"We still have to wait for the Engineers and make sure nothing else
shows up," Lorn points out, probably unnecessarily, but he wants the
lances spared, if possible.

"They will not soon arrive," predicts Olisenn.

Lorn fears that as well.  "We need to circle the crown and go down the
other side.  We'll keep the squads together."

"Yes, scr."  The quick response from both squad leaders conveys
definite approval of that tactic.

Although Lorn thinks he hears some rustling in the branches, he sees
nothing on the slow ride around the fallen tree.  Nor do his squad
leaders or any of the lancers see any more aggressive creatures.

The only animals they see are when they circle back to the southeast
side of the tree in completing their circuit.  The vulcrows and other
carrion birds have already begun to feast on the dead serpent and the
fallen night leopards.

Lorn looks south toward the Accursed Forest, wondering how many more
trunks will fall across the ward-wall in his three years at Jakaafra,
and how many more surprises like the giant serpent await him.

LXXVII

Lorn wakes the next morning, just after dawn, stiff from lying on the
hard soil of the dead land with only a thin blanket for padding and for
warmth against a night that had almost been close to freezing.  His
skull aches, both from fatigue and from a vague memory of dreams-dreams
of white walls being poured into the very earth itself, trees being
scythed from the forests, and acid being dripped on his skin, except
his skin had been the ground itself.  His eyes turn south to the bulk
of the Accursed Forest, but the Forest offers no answers.

He shakes his head slowly and stretches, gingerly.  He drinks nearly an
entire water bottle before he has any of the hard biscuits and cheese
that comprise the emergency rations.  The combination of liquid and
food seems to clear his thoughts somewhat, and he studies the day,
seemingly as cool as the previous one, although the wind out of the
northeast has died down into an intermittent, if cool breeze.

As Lorn is smoothing his uniform in place, wishing again that he had
been able to shave, Kusyl appears.

"The sentries say that nothing happened with the tree, scr," Kusyl
reports.  "No cats, no leopards, no serpents."

"Good.  I'm going to have another look at the serpent.  I won't be
long.  Besides, there's little enough we can do except try to keep any
more leopards from breaking free."

"Yes, scr."  Kusyl's tone is not quite dubious.

"The sentries are still on duty?"

"Yes, scr."

"When I get back, we'll discuss the day-both for first and second
squads."

Kusyl nods.

Lorn walks the five hundred cubits or so from the bivouac area beyond
the crown of the tree down the east side of the tangled branches.  Four
vulcrows flap off as the lancer captain nears the trunk and the dead
snake.  The astringent smell of crushed leaves mixes with the odors of
musk and death as Lorn steps closer to the charred remnants of the
serpent's head.

For a time, he studies the mass of charred scales and the blackened
white bone showing through.  Then he studies the trunk, and then the
branches.  Finally, he walks back to where the two squad leaders wait.
His boots are covered with the powdered dust of salt- and chaos-killed
soil even after his short walk.

Olisenn raises his eyebrows as if to ask why Lorn had been studying the
dead serpent.  Kusyl merely waits.

"We need to maintain the guard to keep any more creatures from leaving
the Forest or the tree.  We'll need to continue the sentry with four
lancers with fire lances behind him, until the engineers arrive and
fire the crown."

Both squad leaders nods reluctantly.

"We won't mount anyone else until the engineers arrive, but we can
rotate groups of lancers to that stream to the north to get water for
themselves and their mounts-and to wash up if they want."

"Yes, scr."

"Why don't you take the first group, Olisenn," Lorn suggests.  "You and
Kusyl alternate groups of four from each squad."

"As you wish, scr."

Lorn nods.  His thoughts are still on his dreams and the puzzle of the
giant serpent.

"I'd Like to report that to the second squad, scr," Kusyl says.

"Of course."

Lorn does not join the rotation for washing until well after mid-day,
with the last group from the second squad.  The cool water clears his
head more, and he feels less itchy and more presentable after
shaving.

It is late afternoon before two fire wagons appear with the armored
cannon.  The officer who emerges from the lead fire wagon to seek Lorn
is one of the captains Lorn had met when thanking Majer Weylt the
morning Second Company had left Eastend.

Lorn rides the gelding closer and reins up, waiting.

"Captain Lorn, Captain Strynst.  Majer Weylt sends his apologies, but
the spring rains were too heavy, and there was a break in the retaining
walls for the Great Canal, and he was summoned to assist there."

"From Eastend?"  Lorn asks.

"It's a distance, even by fire wagon but there aren't that many good
engineers, and the Majer is one of the best."  Strynst smiles
apologetically.

"We're glad to see you," Lorn replies.  "I was just surprised that he'd
be called from so far."

"There aren't that many Mirror Engineers any more.  Most of us are
here, except for the few that are in Fyrad working on the fireships."
Strynst turns and studies the trunk.  "Not too bad, this one."  He
gives a wry smile.  "Of course, it fell right on a ward.  Happens nine
times out of ten.  Biggest reason to believe the Accursed Forest thinks
in some way.  That couldn't happen by accident-not year after year."

"I never thought anything with the Forest was an accident."  Lorn
laughs once.

"Some lancer officers do.  Most of them end up dead."  The engineer
captain gestures toward the upper branches three hundred cubits
northward.  "Have many creatures running loose?"

Lorn's eyes follow the gesture momentarily, then fix back on the
engineer.  "Two giant cats, one serpent, and a pack of night leopards.
Vulcrows, of course."

"A serpent?  Never heard of one of those."

"It's a big one," Lorn says, gesturing in the general direction of the
crown.  "Forty cubits, maybe longer.  Two cubits thick."

"We'll take a look when we fire the crowns."  The captain pauses.  "You
get all the creatures?"

"One giant cat and two of the leopards escaped.  There wasn't any real
way to catch them."

"There never is once they leave the trees and get past the lancers.
Until some holder gets killed trying to protect his stock or kills them
because they get cornered in a pen or something."  Strynst shakes his
head.  "Might as well get started.  Pull your men back, and we'll set
up the fire cannon

"They're all back at the crown area now, Captain.  I thought it would
be better to set up there to keep any more creatures from breaking
loose.  If you want, I can move some up here."

"A half-score-behind the fire wagons Strynst suggests.

"I'll have them there shortly."  Lorn turns the gelding and rides back
north, knowing, again, from the order-chaos patterns that he feels and
cannot yet fully explain, that nothing more will occur.  Not with this
fallen trunk.

"Thank you."  Strynst turns and walks back to the fire wagon  Lorn
turns the gelding, letting the horse walk slowly toward the waiting
lancers.  He takes a deep breath.  Spring has just barely begun.

LXXVIII

The bright mid-morning light of spring is pouring through the window of
the inner Mirror Lancer study as Lorn struggles with the last lines of
his latest patrol report.  He looks it over once more, then signs it
and looks up at the closed door, beyond which is the empty outer
study.

Theoretically, he has the day off, as a stand-down period, but if he
does not use part of the day to catch up on the reports and the letters
to the families of the fallen lancers, it will be another eight day
before he can, and then he will have twice as much to write, with a
memory far less fresh.

After he sets aside the patrol report to let the ink dry, he picks up
the next sheet of paper to begin the summary reports that will go to
Majer Maran in Geliendra-carried by the next fire wagon of the Mirror
Engineers.  In one patrol, Second Company has dealt with two breaches
of the ward-wall by the fallen trees-a giant stun lizard, something
like four giant cats, three packs of night leopards, and a giant
serpent-and lost five lancers.

Lorn dislikes mentioning the number of creatures that escaped, but
does, since all the reports in the file do so, even if the format does
not necessarily require such.  But, as Lorn knows, what is required and
what is expected are not always the same.  After finishing that scroll,
he lays it by the first, and then begins writing the scroll he
dislikes.  with great sadness I must inform you that... was killed
while performing his duties as a Mirror Lancer.  He died in protecting
the land that he served and loved from the continual dangers of the
Accursed Forest.... After five such letters, Lorn finally picks up the
other scroll, the sealed one that has been waiting for him.

Rather, it is addressed to: Lancer Captain, Northend, Jakaafra.  The
seal is blank maroon wax, without even an initial on the glob that
holds the scroll closed.  Lorn breaks it, unrolls the missive, and
begins to read.

Honored Captain:

I am writing this scroll on behalf of my family, and my brother in
particular.  They have suffered great depredations as a result of the
failure of the Mirror Lancers at Jakaafra to destroy wild creatures
from the Accursed Forest.... Last eight day a black leopard entered the
sheep pen and dragged off a prize ewe, two nights in a row.  The day
following, my brother found dead a bullock he had been fattening for
market.  Little was left, save the head and bones.  The prints in the
ground were of a cat whose size could scarce be imagined... I am
fortunate in that I do not require livestock for my livelihood, but all
too many in and around Jakaafra will not survive in winter, save in
despair and poverty, unless these awful creatures are destroyed....
Whatever needs be done, we beseech you do so.... The signature reads:
Kylynzar.

Lorn takes a deep breath.  So... now he must worry about sacrificing
even more lancers to save cows and sheep-or possibly save those farm
animals.  Or can he task Juist with rooting them out?  How?  He takes a
second breath, considering that the victims could have been children as
easily as livestock.

Yet... he has not had enough charged fire lances or enough lancers to
kill and contain all the night leopards and giant cats they had faced,
let alone the giant serpent.

He frowns, catching himself.  Knowing what he knows, he has not been
able to do such.  Will he have to?  He worries his lips.  He certainly
has no intention of attacking every stun lizard with but a sabre or
trying to chase down giant cats.

The serpent still preys on him.  Setting aside the scroll for a moment,
he searches for the patrol manual that Majer Maran had provided.  When
he finally pulls it from the single desk drawer, he flips the pages
slowly, going all the way through the volume.  Not finding what he
seeks, he starts on the first page and begins to scan each page, if
quickly.

When he has completed a second search, he sets the manual down slowly.
There are no references to serpents.  The manual lists the dangers from
the night leopards, from giant cats, from the stun lizards, even from a
kind of tortoise Lorn has never seen, and from vulcrows and the
circular nests of giant paper wasps-wasps as long as a man's index
finger.  The captain winces at that thought, and resolves to keep that
possibility in mind with the next fallen trunk.

Lorn had not seen teeth in the serpent's jaws, nor had the serpent
actually attacked the lancers.  Yet it could have swallowed a lancer.

Lorn fingers his chin and glances down at the scroll he must answer- or
send back to Majer Maran.  He likes neither alternative.

Finally, he begins to write.... Honored scr,

I appreciate the magnitude of the calamities which have befallen you
and your family and your brother.  do the best that we can, but Second
Company patrols a wall ninety-nine kays in length with but two score
lancers.  At the time of your difficulties, we were opposing the
Accursed Forest and killed near-on a score of creatures, including four
giant cats, two packs of the black night leopards and a giant stun
lizard... in these endeavors in which five lancers lost their lives it
may have been possible that some creatures did escape, but not through
the lack of effort or the unwillingness of lancers to die to protect
the folk of Cyador... and we will continue to do our best in this
struggle.... With all best wishes and heart-felt condolences... After
the third scroll dries, Lorn locks all eight responses into his chest,
since there is no way to send them at the moment, and since he may
reconsider his wording of the last response.

He closes the door and walks down the empty corridor, turning at the
cross-corridor and going through the double doors to the courtyard of
the compound.  The courtyard is also empty, since Juist is patrolling
the roads somewhere thirty kays to the north, as Lorn recalls.

On the other side of the courtyard, the stable doors are open, and Lorn
steps inside.

"You're about early, scr," offers Suforis, the thin-faced blond stable
boy scurrying up to the lancer captain, "that be, for a stand-down
day."  He glances toward the stall that holds Lorn's gelding.  "You're
not going to ride him far, scr?"

"Only to Jakaafra."

"He'll do for that.  The farrier'll be here after your next patrol,
scr."

"How many of the mounts need new shoes?"

"Could be a half-score, scr.  Not as bad as undercaptain Juist's
mounts; they ride the roads, mostly, and it's hard on 'em.  He needs
most of the spare mounts."

Lorn nods, then asks, "You said that you were allowed to ride the
spares for exercise?"

"Have to, se rAnd Undercaptain Juist, he uses me as a messenger, at
times."

"You're good at it, I'd bet," Lorn answers.  "I might ask you to do
that, as well, except it's for me to send scrolls to order things.
Could you do that, say for a copper a scroll-carry them to a factor in
Jakaafra?"

"Did that for Captain Meisyl, half copper each."  Suforis grins.

"So a copper would be fine."  Lorn grins back.  "Now... If you'd saddle
the gelding."

"Yes, scr."

Lorn does not wait long before the stable boy returns.

"You best be riding easy, scr," cautions Suforis, after leading the
saddled gelding out to Lorn.

"I will."  Lorn smiles at the earnest young man.

The lancer captain lets the gelding set his own pace.  It is not as
though Lorn is in that much of a hurry, although it is far later than
he had intended to get back in touch with Dustyn the factor.  Then,
when has he had any stand-down days to do so before this?

The air has warmed from the previous two days, but a light breeze from
the east remains, making riding comfortable.  Green has suffused the
shoots in the fields, and the winter-gray leaves retained by the trees
in the wood lots and orchards have turned deep green, while the fresh
leaves are a lighter and more intense shade.  The apple trees in one
orchard already show white blossoms, although the pear apples limbs are
near-bare yet, with winter-gray leaves still furled.

The gelding's hoofs tap-click on the granite stones of the road, a
smooth way, but narrow, only ten cubits wide.  Twice Lorn goes onto the
grassy shoulder to pass wagons headed for the town.  He nods politely
to both drivers, and both nod back, somberly, without speaking.

Although the town is supposedly only five kays from the compound, it is
nearly mid-morning when the gelding brings Lorn to where the houses
begin to gather together, past the kay stone announcing the town lies
yet one kay farther.  Lorn rides past the yellow-brick houses, each
with the green ceramic exterior privacy screens, and the trimmed
privacy hedges that circle rear porticos.  Most of the green shutters
are open. With all the dwellings of one story, to Lorn, Jakaafra seems
something less than a town, if more than a hamlet.

The single square in the midst of Jakaafra is small, merely an open,
stone-paved expanse no more than a hundred cubits on a side.  Lorn
rides slowly around the square, making a full circuit before his eyes
light on a building on a short lane just off the square.  There is a
narrow storefront, above which is a green barrel.  Lorn hopes that the
green barrel is the symbol for a factor in spirits and liquids.  It
should be, since Dustyn's scroll had indicated he was "off the
square."

With a smile, Lorn guides the gelding to the granite hitching post
below the narrow porch, and ties his mount to the bronze ring, slightly
tarnished.  He steps onto the porch and through the single doors and
finds himself in a small room, bare except for a counter, behind which
no one stands, but on which is a hand bell  Lorn rings it.
"Coming..."

Lorn waits, but no one appears.  Finally, he rings it again.  "said I
was a'coming."  The curtain behind the counter is drawn back and a man
appears a span or two taller than Lorn.  His straight brown hair is
pulled back and held by an ornate silver clip.  "I said... oh, Captain,
didn't know as it was you.  Captain Lorn, I take it, since you'd be the
only Mirror Lancer captain around, and today being your stand-down day,
I'd wager, seeing as you wouldn't be here on any other day...."

Lorn laughs.  "I'm Captain Lorn."  He lifts his hand and shows the seal
ring.

"And I'm Dustyn, factor in spirits and liquids, only one north of the
Accursed Forest, only one 'tween here and the barbarians, 'tween here
and the Westhorns...."  Dustyn bows.  "If you would accompany me,
honored captain."

As he follows Dustyn through the narrow curtained archway, Lorn wonders
why he is an the "honored" captain, but he follows the older man along
a corridor and down the narrow brick steps to a cool cellar.  Against
one wall is a long platform, on which rest kegs and barrels of
differing sizes, made of staves of various woods.  On the adjoining
wall are racks containing hundreds of bottles.

Before the racks are three wooden crates and two baskets.

"You see... we have two cases of the Alafraan and one of the
Fhynyco...."  Dustyn lifts both hands theatrically.  "And of course,
the two baskets of dry goods we accepted on your behalf, as they were
so small."

Lorn nods.  The baskets are small, no more than two cubits long and
slightly less than a cubit in diameter-small enough to be fastened
behind his saddle.  He extends silver to the factor.  "I appreciate
your care."  He smiles.  "You did well to treat with Ryalor House.  It
is small... but not without influence."

Dustyn offers a lopsided smile in return.  "Indeed, scr.  I know some
who trade with both the Yuryan Clan and the Dyjani, and my inquiries,
always discreet, you understand, they have returned the words to me
that the Ryalor House is honest and returns value."  Dustyn shifts his
weight from foot to foot nervously.

"All kinds of value?"  suggests Lorn.

"Ah... yes, scr."

"I will put in a good word for you, Dustyn."  The lancer captain
smiles.  "Perhaps we could work out something."  He pauses.  "I would
rather not accept all these bottles at one time, and you do have some
storage here."

"Yes, scr."  Dustyn's smile loses its nervous edge.  "If you would wish
a few bottles every eight day for a small fee...."

"How small?"  asks Lorn warily.

"Very small-a half copper an eight day

"We have an agreement."  Lorn extends another silver.  "This should
accommodate you until fall, should it not?"

"Yes, scr."

"Do you know a holder named Kylynzar?"  asks Lorn.  "From somewhere
around here?"

"Kylynzar?  Yes, serA most respected man.  He holds much land to the
north, in the red hills, and he grows melons, and some of them he turns
into the gold melon brandy.  It is good brandy, though most in Jakaafra
prefer the rice beer or the ale."

"Hmmm... do you have a bottle of the brandy?"

"I have several... more than several."

Lorn nods.  "I have a suggestion.  I will be sending a scroll to
someone I know at Ryalor House.  You can make those arrangements, can
you not?"

"It would have to accompany some goods... or for a fee...."

"The golden melon brandy.  I would suggest sending a small case to
Ryalor House.  A gold in shipping?"

"Ah... yes, scr, and a gold for a half-score of the smaller bottles."

Lorn nods, and extends two golds, hoping he will not need to spend much
more for at least several eight days when his next stipend as a lancer
captain arrives.  "Consider it done.  You send my scroll-you will
receive it tomorrow or the next day-with the shipment back to Ryalor
House."

"Yes, scr."

"And for that, Dustyn, you could spare me one small bottle of the
golden brandy to go with the Alafraan and Fhynyco I will take with me,
could you not?"  Lorn smiles winningly.  "If I like it, and Ryalor
House likes it, you might find more trade with them."

"A bottle I could spare."  Dustyn's smile is half-relieved,
half-speculative.

"And you know that Ryalor House respects confidences, and expects its
confidences to be kept?"

"Ah... yes, scr... many have said such."

"Just so we understand each other."

"Yes, scr."

Lorn gives up a last silver.  "For your assistance and continuing
efforts, Dustyn."  He thinks the combination of implied lash and honey
will keep the factor dealing honestly, and his own rudimentary truth
reading skills indicate that Dustyn has not lied to him or tried to
deceive him.

Lorn does need to borrow some cord to fasten the straw-padded sack with
the brandy and wine and the two baskets to the gelding, and he ties
them securely behind his saddle.

With a nod and a wave, he turns the gelding back toward the compound.
Concentrating on all that must be done, his thoughts flicking from one
problem to another, the return ride seems far shorter.

Once he is back in his quarters, with the three bottles of wine-one of
Fhynyco and two of Alafraan-and the brandy sitting on his small desk,
he opens the brandy and pours a finger width of it into his mug.

Then he sniffs it, slowly.  The aroma barely holds the scent of melon,
and there is a deeper and warmer flavor there.  He takes a sip, and
cannot help but smile.  If Ryalor House can arrange matters quietly,
there will be more golds from the brandy.  If... Then... all of life
holds its ifs.

Lorn bends down and opens the first basket.  On top is a set of
smallclothes, and then a lightweight summer shimmer cloth Lancer tunic.
Under that is a second set of smallclothes.  Within the second set is a
folded and sealed paper.  He smiles and sets aside the clothing for the
words written in Ryalth's bold script.

My dearest captain,

As promised, here are some goods that may be of value in the seasons
ahead.

Much gossip came of the death of Shevelt.  I believe that occurred
after you departed.  The Dyjani Clan offered its respects to the new
heir, in golds.  They also presented an exquisite Hamorian tapestry. At
the moment, all is calm.

Ryalor House suffered some loss when the Redwind Courser foundered in a
storm in the Gulf, but not so much as many, and recouped some of that
in other trades.... Lorn nods.  While he had hoped the ship would last
for a few voyages, he had warned Ryalth, and she had acted accordingly.
He would like to wait to respond to Ryalth, to take time to answer
properly, but time he does not have, not when he will ride out on the
morrow for another patrol out and back, another eight day before he can
send a scroll in a manner he knows will reach its destination with far
less chance of being read than sending it through the lancer courier
system.

Still... he had the forethought to make arrangements with Dustyn- the
forethought, and the luck, he reminds himself.

Below the garments, and wrapped in heavy oiled leather are several
other packages-some cheeses, dried fruits, and nuts.  The second basket
holds a package of fine linen paper, three bottles of ink, and a
cupridium-tipped pen that has clearly come from a craftsman.  Concealed
in the middle of the paper are ten golds.  Also at the bottom of the
second basket are more dried fruits and nuts.

Lorn smiles at the clear reminder that he is expected to write, and at
the suggestion that the golds are to be used to ensure such missives
arrive.

Once he has emptied the baskets and stored their goods, Lorn lights the
lamp in the bracket above the desk, seats himself, and begins to write,
using the new pen and ink.

My dearest lady trader,

Thank you for the Alafraan and the Fhynyco... and for all the manner of
fine goods you have sent.  You are truly amazing.... I have made
arrangements, through Dustyn the factor, to send you a small case of a
gold melon brandy.  Dustyn recommended it, and I have tried one bottle.
It has a good and mellow taste, strong as it is, and I've never seen it
before.  Perhaps it might prove useful and profitable as an item to
sell to the Austrans or Hamorians.... I also suggest you look into the
timber gleaned from the Accursed Forest.  It's carried down the Great
Canal and sold to coastal traders and Hamorians... wouldn't be
surprised if it made good shipbuilding timber, but couldn't tell you
why.  The Brystans might be interested.... Lorn pauses, holding the
pen, wishing he could offer her more insight, for it seems that is all
he can offer in these days.  Finally, he adds a few more lines and
closes it.

From your faithful partner, one most appreciative of the clothing, the
sustenance, and the wines and the spirit in which they were all
conveyed.

He lays that scroll aside for the ink to dry while he begins the
second, also overdue, to his family, but that will go through the
lancer courier system, where it will doubtless be read, and will say
little that is not expected.

It was a long trip to Jakaafra, and it has taken some time to become
familiar with all that it necessary here.  My immediate senior officer,
Majer Maran, is most friendly, and reminds me of my old school-mate
Dettaur.... Only Jerial will understand the full meaning of that....
and his mother.... patrols here different from those in Isahl... we
ride three days, have a day of stand-down, then ride three more- unless
there is a problem.... Jakaafra is the smallest of the compounds around
the Forest.... I have met some Mirror Engineers and am developing great
respect for their work.... After he adds more pleasantries, and allows
the second scroll to dry, Lorn seals both scrolls and sets them on the
corner of the desk, for dispatch, in their differing ways, in the
morning.

Then, he stands and stretches, before moving to the wardrobe, and
slipping the chaos glass out and setting it upon his desk.  He frowns.
He has only felt one magus screeing him since he came to Jakaafra. Does
the Forest inhibit such?  Or does no one care about his actions in
distant eastern Cyador?

Laying the glass on the golden-aged white oak, Lorn concentrates on the
silvered glass, trying to call up the image of Ryalth.  The mists
appear, and swirl for what seems an inordinately long time, but they do
clear and present an image.

A red-haired woman walks along Second Harbor Way in the fading light of
early evening.  Abruptly, her step hesitates and she turns.  For a
moment, Lorn looks full into the face in the glass, then lets the image
go.  He does not wish to disturb her-not too much.

His forehead is beaded with sweat from that short effort, and he can
tell he will need practice, much more practice.

What of Maran?  He shakes his head.

Then he smiles and concentrates on recalling Dustyn the factor.

When the mists clear, Lorn finds himself blushing, for Dustyn is within
a bedchamber, and not alone.  He quickly allows that image to fade.

Does the Forest inhibit a chaos glass?

He concentrates on the last tree trunk that had fallen across the
ward-wall, trying to recall the location near the midpoint chaos tower
and even the shape of the trunk that remained after the engine captain
had fired the crown.

The mists take far, far longer to clear, and Lorn can feel the heat
pouring from his brow, but he continues to seek the image.

Finally, he is rewarded with an image.  Four wagons flank a trunk that
appears half what it had been.  A score of men labor with shimmering
long saws.  Lorn tries to shift the image to see beyond the wall, but
nothing appears except a black-silver curtain.  He tries again.

His head feels light, and tiny stars flash before his eyes.  He sits on
the edge of his narrow bed until the flashing and dizziness subside.
Then he stands and replaces the glass in the wardrobe.

He needs to find something to eat.  He reclaims the opened brandy
bottle and steps out into the corridor, turning and locking his door.
Then he starts for the dining area, where he knows he can find bread
and cheese, at least.  Perhaps Juist has returned and will like some of
the brandy.

Lorn shrugs, smiling.  The day has not gone that badly, and he does not
have to think of the morrow's patrol.  Not yet.

LXXIX

The spring-like breeze gusts past Lorn as the lancer captain rides
along the perimeter road just north of white granite structure that
holds the northwest midpoint chaos tower-the tower that Lorn is
convinced has not operated perhaps in several years.  The gelding's
hoofs barely tap on the smooth granite of the road, and the faint
chirping of insects in the fields to his left occasionally lifts above
the sighing of the wind in the meadow grass that is already knee-high
there.

With the breeze, Lorn feels cooler, and the perspiration he has blotted
from his forehead does not return, not until the breeze dies down.  To
his right, the second squad continues riding forward in their line
abreast formation, looking for signs of any Forest incursions, but in
the three patrols since the last fallen tree, there have been no shoots
or any additional fallen trees.

Behind Lorn's saddle is fastened a second sabre in a battered sheath.
All the men know it is there, and none remark upon it, not after seeing
that their captain had lost his first sabre battling a stun lizard. Yet
that is not why Lorn carries it.  He can sense the dark order within
the cupridium forged-exterior of the blade, and he knows that, in some
instances, it will have greater effect against the order-backed attacks
and creatures of the Accursed Forest, for it has become all too clear
that the Forest employs linked order and chaos, and that such is far
more effective than either order or chaos alone.  Where and how-of the
exact circumstances-he is less certain.

He readjusts his garrison cap.

"Going to be a hot summer, scr," Kusyl says, raising his voice to cross
the stretch of road that separates the two men.  "All the signs point
to it, every one.  Vytly says the grapes are coming in early, and not a
late frost to nip 'em, either.  Melons, too, and even the red berries
are fruiting early."

"I hope it's not as hot as the Grass Hills," Lorn answers with a laugh.
"I could do without that."

"Noser  Nothing that hot.  Maybe feels hotter here, though, 'cause the
air's damper, you know."  Kusyl gestures to his left, toward the silent
bulk of the Accursed Forest.  "Always rains more around the Forest.  Be
why folk live here, even worrying 'bout the creatures." The junior
squad leader pauses, then asks, "Heard any more about the big cats?"

"Every so often, I get a scroll complaining that a bullock or a sheep's
been killed.  I try to explain."

"They should be out here, looking at one of them trunks after it falls.
Give 'em a real different look at things.  Wager none of them be
pensioned lancers."

A murmur rises from the lancer fifty cubits to Kusyl's left, one that
Lorn barely hears, and Kusyl does not.  "such a man as a pensioned
lancer... not Paradise likely!"

"I'm sure they're not," Lorn answers across the ten cubits between
them.  "I doubt a pensioned lancer would stay too close to the
ward-wall."

Kusyl laughs.  "Not me.  Be going back to Kynstaar, I am, when that day
comes.  Open a tavern there, and take golds from lancer officers."

Lorn smiles.

Ahead is the place where the last tree had fallen, but, as Majer Weylt
had told him eight days before, there is no sign that a Forest tree had
ever toppled across the ward-wall.  The wind has filled in the
depressions in the dead land with loose salty soil and carried away the
sawdust.  Poorer peasants have crept out into the dead land at dawn and
at twilight and carried off the remaining branches for firewood.  And
the wind and the insects have removed the leaves.  To the south, Lorn
can discern no noticeable gap in the huge trunks that comprise a second
wall behind the ward-wall itself.

It is almost as though no tree had ever fallen across the ward-wall.

Except... Lorn recalls that there are dead lancers, strange animals
roaming the northern lands of Cyad, and farm animals killed and dragged
off into the dark.  And he knows that other trees will fall, as falls
the rain, as blows the wind.

LXXX

In the bright light supplied by the wall lamps and their polished
cupridium reflectors that are unnecessary for those within the chamber,
First Magus Chyenfel moves deliberately, almost cautiously, to the
armchair beside the desk in the austere study on the uppermost level of
the tower that crowns the Quarter of the Magi'i.  It is a tower in name
only, for it rises but five levels, far less imposing than the Palace
of Light-except to the Senior Lectors of the Magi'i and those who know
what transpires within the Quarter.  Silently, Chyenfel'elth seats
himself, then waits for the Second Magus to take the chair before the
desk.

"Scr?"  asks Kharl'elth.  "You do not summon often in the evening."

"When I am tired, and less on guard?  You are right.  I do not."  A
smile appears and vanishes.  "I wish to know why you discourage
Captain-Commander Luss from voicing his support of the sleep-ward
project to the Majer-Commander, and why you have likewise discouraged
the Emperor's Merchanter Advisor."

Kharl smiles warmly, his green eyes dancing.  "I have said not one word
against this effort.  Not one word against it to anyone, scr."

Chyenfel offers a dramatic sigh.  "That is the same as discouraging it,
and we both know it.  I have held my counsel, believing that we had
time, and that in the fullness of that time, the need would become
obvious without having to raise one's voice or the power of the
Magi'i."

"That was wise, scr, for the replenishment towers here in the Quarter
may fail soon, if one by one, and the barbarian attacks are increasing,
requiring more fire lances and more charges for those lances."  Kharl's
words are bland.  "As you know, I fear the barbarians more than the
Accursed Forest."

"Failing to deal with the Accursed Forest may be wise for a season or
so, perchance, even a year, but not longer."  The sun gold eyes of the
First Magus lock upon the green eyes of the Second Magus, which carry
but a shade of the sun gold sheen.  "Yet you know as do I that the
ward-wall on the northeast side of the Accursed Forest is barely
holding, and that we have lost yet another chaos-tower there."

"I have read the reports from the Mirror Engineers that have suggested
such."  Kharl shrugs offhandedly.  "We both understand the dangers. 
Yet we do not wish to incur the Emperor's displeasure-or that of the
Majer-Commander of Lancers-by limiting further the chaos charges we
supply to the Mirror Lancers.  Or by reducing the number of fire wagons
that travel the Highways of Cyador.  We have already limited the use of
tow-wagons on the Great Canal."

The First Magus waits.

"That is why we... intimated that Captain Lorn-or should I say,
Lorn'elth?-be assigned such patrols on the northeast ward-wall border."
Kharl brushes back a stray reddish hair, almost absently, yet
affectedly.  "He is likely to be... more effective."

Chyenfel'elth's mouth smiles, but his sun gold eyes are politely
intent, never leaving the Second Magus.  "That was indeed wise, Kharl,
if not precisely for the reasons you discussed with Captain-Commander
Luss."

"We also need the time to ensure your project works," Kharl continues,
"and that is another reason why I have not yet pressed for its
implementation.  All the while, the ward-wall must seem as strong as
ever until we are most certain we can complete your project."

"I almost believe you, honored Second Magus."  Chyenfel steeples his
long delicate fingers before him.

"Are you convinced it will work, scr?"  asks Kharl abruptly.  "This
great project of which you speak to the Emperor so intently?"

"Completely?  No.  But it matters not.  If it does not work, then Cyad
is better served by knowing such while other chaos towers yet remain.
There will be no towers in a generation, and only a handful of fire
lances charged by the laborious concentration of the scattering of
first-level adepts.  Each year will find but a few score cupridium
blades produced to hold back the barbarians of the north."  The sun
gold eyes flare.  "You know this.  The risk is worth it."  An ironic
smile follows.  "Except to those who wish to seize power now-or in the
poor handful of years to come."

"I have never opposed you, scr."  The warm smile plays once more across
Kharl's face.

"But... knowing how I can truth read you, most honored Second Magus,
you are most careful of what you say, and how you say it."

"As are you, scr," replies Kharl.  "As are we all."

"Again, you are most accurate, Kharl, most accurate.  I would that you
consider turning your considerable charm and judgment to support what
we must do to confine the Accursed Forest for more than the handful of
years left to the chaos towers and their crystal wards."

"I hear, honored First Magus, and I will begin."

A faint smile once more appears on Chyenfel's lips, and he rises to
signify the meeting is at an end.

Kharl also rises, and his smile could be a mirror of that on the lips
of the First Magus.

Neither the sun gold eyes nor those of dancing green with the
intermittent gold cast bear any semblance of a smile.

LXXXI

The way station is silent, under an early summer sky so cloudless,
dark, and still that not even the stars overhead twinkle.  Lorn does
not look skyward as he slips silently across the granite stones of the
courtyard to the small side postern that is neither locked nor guarded.
Wearing the Brystan sabre on his right hip, in addition to his lancer
sabre on his left, Lorn slides into the shadows, melding with them as
he opens the gate and departs, walking silently southward on the stone
walkway that flanks the walls.

Once clear of the walls, he places his boots as quietly as possible on
the dry dead land soil, for he would rather not take the narrow road
that leads from the front gates of the way station past the perimeter
road and inward to the ward-wall.  Even so, his steps carry him
steadily through the darkness toward the ward-wall and the presence
that looms behind the whitened granite and the chaos-net that flares
above it-a net unseen except by the Magi'i-and a lancer who remains
magus.

He stops on the inner wall road, where he studies the subtly glowing
granite, the chaos net, and the deep twining of black order and
golden-red chaos.  He wonders again how something that incorporates
such chaos can be as evil as the Magi'i have depicted.  Yet there is no
denying the animosity that the forest creatures have toward the
engineers and the lancers.  Or is it exactly animosity?

"Do you want to try this?"  he murmurs to himself, knowing as he does
that merely continuing as a skillful lancer is not enough.  After
winter and spring, with summer continuing the same pattern of scattered
Forest shoots and too many fallen trees, and escaping creatures too
swift and numerous and dangerous for the numbers of lancers and fire
lances in Second Company, he knows that sooner or later, he will make a
mistake that will be fatal-or that could be, and he has no wish to
trust his future to fate alone.

He unsheathes the Brystan sabre, holding it before him.  Then... Lorn
concentrates, much as he once did in transferring chaos from the tower
in the Quarter of the Magi'i to the chaos cells that power the fire
wagons of Cyad.  Except this time, he merely shifts that energy away
from a single ward, in order to create an unshuttered window-or a door
temporarily open-to the Accursed Forest.

With the fading of the small section of chaos-net, Lorn can fully sense
the power-the white chaos and dark order of the Forest that is greater
in its own way than the combined energy of the all the chaos towers
that weave the chaos web that holds the Forest within its bounds.  And
he understands, and he shudders.

A dark lance flares through the window in the ward-wall, straight at
Lorn, attacking the lancer-magus as if he were the Forest's gaoler.

Lorn lifts the Brystan sabre, lifting untested chaos-order shields,
shields he has practiced only in private since leaving the Quarter of
the Magi'i, and letting the ordered iron within the cupridium catch the
Forest's bolt of order-chaos... catch and turn it upward into a flare
that flashes upwards.

Nonetheless, he staggers, and with his staggering releases his hold on
the chaos diversions, and the chaos-net surges back, confining the
Forest.

Lorn's face burns, and sweat drips from his forehead.  He has been
foolhardy... and survived by luck, and his own lack of chaos control.
He smothers a bitter laugh, knowing he has barely begun to understand
what he must learn.

As he walks back through the darkness he glances at the sabre once
more.  Within the shimmering cupridium is a core of ordered iron-and
iron that feels darker, almost black, and far stronger than either the
original wrought material iron of the blade or of the comparable
cupridium lancer sabre that remains in his scabbard.

A faint glow surrounds the Brystan sabre.  Lorn sheathes it carefully
and walks even more silently and circuitously back toward the side gate
from whence he had departed.  Overhead, the stars have begun to twinkle
once more with the slight breeze that helps to cool his fevered
countenance.

Lorn slides through the shadows, and is walking across the courtyard,
almost to the courtyard door that will lead to his quarters.

"Scr!  That you, Captain?"

Footsteps cross the stones, and Lorn hears the hiss of a drawn sabre.

"Yes.  I just wanted some air.  It's all right."  Lorn lets the lantern
show his face.

"Ah... yes, scr."  The sabre is sheathed.  "You see that, scr?"

"See what?"  Lorn temporizes.

"Been so quiet... then there was this flash out by the wall.  I thought
maybe another of those big trees falling.  But nothing happened.
Thought I heard footsteps, you know, but there was just a glow moving
by the wall, and it vanished."

"You can't ever tell with the Accursed Forest," Lorn points out,
truthfully.

"Noser  Sorry to bother you, scr."  The lantern is lowered.

"It's not a problem.  I'm glad you're watching for us."  Lorn inclines
his head, though he doubts the lancer can see the gesture fully.  "I'm
going to turn in.  We still have a long ride tomorrow."  And again the
day after, and the day after that-and for who knows how many more days
and seasons of trees falling and creatures escaping.

LXXXII

Under high but thick gray clouds, Lorn watches as Olisenn orders his
squad into the line abreast formation that runs inward from the
perimeter road toward the line already formed by Kusyl's second squad.
The heavy squad leader's voice is firm and carries, yet Lorn finds
himself watching the senior squad leader more and more, trying never
turning his back on the man at any time when fire lances are in
readiness.  Even so, there have been a few times when Lorn has
forgotten, and sooner or later, that will create problems.

Lorn reaches forward and pats the gelding, grateful that his mount has
proven more trustworthy than all too many people in Cyador.  Lorn
frowns at his thought.  It is not that so many have proven
untrustworthy; it is that his observations, and those of his father,
have shown that so many will prove untrustworthy.  The gelding is what
the gelding is, unlike people who change in response to their
perceptions of events that may benefit or threaten their power.

He glances toward the clouds that do not seem to promise rain.  Second
Company has but one more day's patrol before reaching the compound at
Jakaafra-and the two full days off they receive after every fourth
complete patrol to Eastend and back.

As he turns the gelding northwest on the wall road, Lorn studies the
white-granite wall to his left.  The chaos-flows are once more
irregular- the response to his efforts of two nights before?  Or
another fallen tree?  Or both?

A faint smile crosses his lips.

There will be another tree trunk down.  That he knows.  And there will
be more wild creatures-and another day on station before the Mirror
Engineers arrive.

"Was it worth it?"  he murmurs.

"Scr, you speaking to me?"  asks Kusyl from the other side of the wall
road to his right.

"No, Kusyl.  I was thinking out loud.  How I'll be glad when we finally
get back to Jakaafra."

"You and me, too, scr.  Been a long summer, and it's hardly been two
eight days since it even started."

Lorn nods.  Will he ever see the ripening-of pears and praise-or of
anything for which he has silently worked?

LXXXIII

The four officers sit around the small table in the dining area at the
Jakaafra compound.  Only a single lamp on the wall is lit, illuminating
the table but dimly, to Lorn's advantage.  Lorn takes a sip of the
Fhynyco, then glances across the table at Gebynet, the Mirror Engineer
majer, on his way through on one of the periodic inspections of the
chaos tower that lies just beyond the compound.  To Lorn's left is
Captain Ilryk, a tall and blond officer, with a high forehead and an
angular face and pointed chin.  After a moment, Lorn's eyes travel to
Undercaptain Juist, sitting to Lorn's left.  "How do you like it?"

"Good!"  The stocky Juist takes a solid swallow.

An enigmatic smile curls onto Ilryk's lips, but he does not offer an
opinion.

"It's better than Byrdyn," admits Gebynet, after a more refined sip,
and another sniff of the bouquet.  "How did you get it here?"

"I have some contacts with mer chanter houses," Lorn admits.  "They
have been kind enough to ship some items to a factor in Jakaafra."

"You don't look or act like you come from a mer chanter clan," Juist
states bluntly.

"I don't," Lorn says easily, taking what appears to be a deep swallow,
but is not, more like a bare sip.  "I just know a few people, and
Captain Meisyl suggested that it would be wise to order in a few
bottles of a decent wine for times like these."  He laughs.  "Few
enough that they are with each of us gone off some place or another
most days and nights."

"True," admits Gebynet.

"As I am when I am here," says Ilryk, who commands the Fifth Forest
Patrol Company based in Westend.  As Lorn patrols the northeast
ward-wall, so does Ilryk patrol the northwest wall.

"We're all riding somewhere most of the time," Juist says after another
swallow from his goblet of Fhynyco.  "Leastwise, none of you have to
chase bandits."

"I think, Juist," offers Ilryk sardonically, "Captain Lorn and I would
prefer the handful of bandits to facing stun lizards, giant cats, and
night leopards.  The bandits fear fire lances and lancers, and fight
seldom."

"Most days... we ride longer," counters Juist.

"Through more pleasant surroundings," suggests Ilryk.

Gebynet laughs.  "I've heard this before, and you two won't change. I'd
rather enjoy the Fhynyco, if you don't mind."

Ilryk smiles, still sardonically, while Juist looks at this empty
goblet mournfully.

Lorn half-fills the undercaptain's goblet, then addresses the Engineer
majer.  "Do you have to do more inspections when they send Majer Weylt
off to work on the Great Canal?  Or do they send him sometimes and you
other times?"

"We do different things beside maintaining the chaos towers.  Last
year, after the storms, I spent almost a season in Fyrad, repairing the
trading piers there."  Gebynet sips more of the wine.  "Rather good
vintage, captain."

Lorn swallows obviously, then lifts the second bottle.  "You should
have some more.  No sense in letting the bottles stand unused."  He
refills both goblets and appears to refill his own as well.  "Not these
days."

"You been having a lot of fallen trees, I hear," offers Juist.

"Have the local people been complaining to you about the escaped
creatures?"  Lorn's smile is crooked.

"We did get a night leopard last eight day out east of here," Juist
answers.  "That made a big melon grower happy."

"Kylynzar, I'd wager," Lorn suggests.

Ilryk shakes his head.  "It would be that one."

"How did you know?"  asks Juist, glancing from Ilryk to Lorn.

"He's been writing scrolls to me."  Lorn rolls his eyes, letting his
words slur ever so slightly.  "He wishes us to make sure that no
creatures escape from the Accursed Forest.  None at all.  So I must
risk lancers and myself- or risk myself even more."  Lorn turns to
Gebynet.

"You have been here the longest of us.  Are more trees falling this
year?"

"Quite a few more than normal," says Gebynet, adding quickly, "but not
an unheard-of number."

"Not unheard of," Lorn says, looking blankly at the Mirror Engineer,
"but how many companies have handled so many fallen trees in three
seasons?  Not quite three seasons," he corrects.

"We have seen more this year than last on our wall," interjects Ilryk,
"but there are always more on the northeast.  In he past two years,
anyway."

"I would not know...."  the majer answers slowly.

"Perhaps one?"  asks Lorn idly, letting his truth-reading senses scan
the Engineer.

"Three or four, I would say."

Lorn nods.  Gebynet is lying, and unhappy about it as well.  He lifts
the bottle again.  "Some more.  No sense in letting the bottle stand
unused."

Gebynet and Juist exchange glances, but allow Lorn to top off their
goblets.  Ilryk refuses, his amused smile still in place.

LXXXIV

In the mid-afternoon sun, Lorn stands in the stirrups to let damp
trousers dry as much as to stretch his legs.  As on every afternoon in
the recent days nearing harvest, the few scattered clouds provide
little relief from the damp heat, and the late-day rainstorms only add
more moisture to the steamy heat.  Each patrol day ends with uniforms
soaked in sweat, and the soil of the dead land is powder under the
hoofs of the patrol mounts, rising and infiltrating boots and uniforms,
and leaving every lancer's skin dry and itchy from salt and sweat and
dust.

Lorn glances to his left, along the line-abreast of lancers, riding
almost a hundred cubits apart now that first squad has but thirteen
lancers out of the twenty when he had arrived three seasons earlier.
The second squad has but twelve.  No replacements are scheduled until
the end of fall or the beginning of winter, and Lorn wonders how small
Second Company will have gotten by then.

As he looks back to his left, as he takes in and ignores another
zzzzzppp for a dead bloodsucking flower fly he can sense the
intermittent pulses of chaos in the cupridium cables that link the
crystal wards.  Another tree is down across the wall, but how far from
Second Company he cannot tell.

"Hot... never gets any cooler... be glad when it starts to frost,"
grunts Kusyl from the outer edge of the wall road.

"Then we'll have to slop through mud," Lorn reminds the squad leader.

"I think I'll take that."

"That's what you say now."  Lorn grins.

As they ride through the afternoon, Lorn keeps looking to the
southeast, until his eyes confirm what his chaos senses have told him
far earlier.  Yet another trunk has fallen across the ward-wall.

"Another tree is down."

"Five abreast!"  Kusyl turns in the saddle and calls to Lorn.
"Olisenn's already seen it.  His squad is going to five front now."

"Set up the containment pattern for the crown," Lorn tells Kusyl.  He
no longer bothers with checking the trunk first.  If there are giant
cats, they will attack no matter where the lancers are.  Stun lizards
are slow enough to be chased down if necessary, and the night leopard
packs are always in the crown.  As for the giant serpents, Second
Company has seen but the one in three seasons.

"Five abreast!  Move out to the tree crown!"  Kusyl orders.  "Ubylt!
Ride out and inform squad leader Olisenn that we're riding out to join
them to block the tree crown!"

"Yes, sers!"  Ubylt turns his chestnut northward.

As Lorn and the second squad angle their way toward the tree crown yet
several kays away, Lorn tries to estimate the size of the fallen giant,
judging that its base diameter is about twenty cubits, larger than
many, but not so large as the mammoth trunks they have sometimes
encountered.

"Think the forest'd run out of big trees," mutters Kusyl.

"With ninety-nine kays on a side to work with?"  Lorn laughs.

"Didn't used to be so many."

"Maybe it was waiting for the big trees to get bigger."

Kusyl snorts.

The two squads join at the perimeter road to the northwest of the
crown.  Lorn estimates that the nearest part of the twisted greenery
lies almost three-quarters of a kay from them.

"First squad... you take the left side, second squad the right."

"You heard the captain."

"First squad to the left!"  booms Olisenn.

With roughly a hundred fifty cubits between them, the two lancer squads
ride toward the forest crown, lances at the ready.

Lorn blots the sweat from his forehead, ignoring the heat from the
continual sunburn on the back of his neck and the way his sweat-soaked
uniform clings to him.  He shifts his weight in the saddle, but his
eyes remain on the crumpled green canopy.

The first creature that lumbers outward, angling more to the east and
the first squad, is a smallish stun lizard-if a lizard a mere three
cubits at the shoulder and fifteen cubits in length can be termed
small.

MMMnnnnn... The silent mental scream halts several mounts, and one
lancer sways in his saddle.

"First squad," Lorn orders.  "Discharge at will!  Now!  Short
bursts!"

"Short bursts at will!"  repeats Olisenn.

MMMnnnnn... The stricken lancer slumps in his saddle, and one mount
rears.

"Second squad, lances ready!  Stand by," Kusyl orders.

Hhssst!  Hssst!... The orange-golden-red of fire lance discharges
flares across the lizard, which, uncharacteristically, turns as if to
retreat into the tangle crown foliage.  The fire lances lash again and
again, and the lizard is still.

"First squad, let the second squad lead a little," Lorn orders, nodding
to Kusyl.

The lancers of the second squad move forward faster, closer to the tip
of the crown.  Lorn looks back, and it appears as though the stunned
lancer is beginning to recover, being supported in his saddle by
another lancer.

Lorn glances toward the vegetation ahead, now well less than two
hundred cubits away.  "Company halt!"  He reins in the gelding,
watching the mass of green and brown, sniffing for the musky odor that
goes with the cats, but for the moment, he smells but the astringency
of crushed leaves.

First company reins up to Lorn's left, their lances at the ready as
well.

The forest canopy is silent, almost too silent, Lorn thinks.

Then, both Lorn and Kusyl see the telltale shifting of branches and the
rustling of leaves that always precedes an attack by the black night
leopards.

"Stand by to discharge!  Short bursts!"  Even as those orders are in
the air, Lorn has to add, "Discharge at will!"

Nearly a score of the night leopards bound from the greenery, straight
at the second squad.

Hsst!  Hssst!... Firebolts from lances flare, and golden-red chaos
collides with streaking blackness.

Three leopards converge on Lorn, and while his lance strikes two, the
third flattens itself and springs toward the gelding.

Lorn slashes down with his sabre, reinforcing it with his own
personally guided chaos force, and the night leopard drops, leaving but
a thin scratch along the gelding's shoulder.

Dark bodies strew the dead land soil.

"Scr!  There it goes!"

Lorn's eyes follow the sole surviving leopard.  It has sprinted back
toward the ward-wall, then to the east, and then outward toward the
perimeter road well clear of any area where lancers are positioned to
intercept the lithe dark cat.

"Scr!  We can't catch it!"

"Hold where you are!"  Lorn orders, ignoring the grim, almost pleased
smile on Olisenn's broad face.  He takes a deep breath, thinking about
another leopard's escape about which he will doubtless hear, one way or
another.  No one will care that of nearly a score of the night
leopards, they have killed all but one.

"Hold fast!"  Both Kusyl and Olisenn echo his orders.

Lorn blots the sweat from his eyes with the forearm of his sleeve.  He
studies the canopy again wondering if they will see a giant cat
again-or a serpent-or anything.

He has been commanding Second Company for nearly three seasons of
patrols... and encountered a fallen trunk practically every second or
third patrol.  Is the Forest going to continue probing the northeast
ward-wall?  Even if it does, what could he do about it?  Except
position his lancers and watch every move Olisenn makes?

"Stand by," Lorn orders tiredly.  "We need to send a messenger to
Eastend."

Again.

LXXXV

Lorn glances at the scroll on the desk in the inner study, and then at
the window.  Outside, a warm drizzle is falling, and a hot fog rises
from the granite stones of the courtyard.  It is afternoon of his
stand-down day, and he has not finished all the reports that have piled
up.  He cannot remember when he last had a clear-eyed moment in which
to write Ryalth or his family, and he still must write a request to
Commander Meylyd to pay the farrier for re shoeing ten mounts.

Finally, the lancer captain picks up the scroll from Majer Maran a
second time and re-reads it slowly.  while it is true that Second
Company has been forced to deal with a singular amount of activity from
the Accursed Forest, that does not relieve you of the responsibility
for the safety of the people of Cyad.

Lorn snorts.  It is not as if he has not already been made well aware
of that requirement by many souls-beginning with the Patrol Manual
itself.  His eyes go back to the scroll.

Commander Meylyd has received more than a dozen message scrolls begging
greater efforts in containing the creatures from the Accursed Forest,
and I am hereby conveying his concerns to you.  All in the Mirror
Lancers know the difficulties of carrying out the duties laid upon us,
often without the ideal support and supplies.  This necessitates long
eight days and fortitude not required of others.  Such is the life of,
and the glory of, an officer of the Mirror Lancers.  As are all
officers in the Mirror Lancers, you are required to accomplish your
duties to the fullest of your abilities.  Rationales and excuses may
serve for mer chanters and outlanders, but the duty of a Mirror Lancer
in the service of the Emperor and of chaos is to comply, and the
accomplishment of the unbelievable and the impossible must be the
commonplace for us.  To allow a single creature to escape from the
order-death realms of the Accursed Forest is not acceptable, not when
the lives and livelihoods of the people are at stake.... Lorn sets down
the scroll and looks out the window once more at the steaming mist
rising from the courtyard.

What can he do?  Does he have any choice?  If he does not bring greater
use of his personal control of chaos to the fore, he will end up
discredited.  If he does, he may end up dead.  After a time of blankly
staring at the window, he bends and reclaims the scroll, then seats
himself at the desk and begins to write his reply-his short reply.

I have received your scroll reminding me most persuasively of the
responsibilities and the glories of serving as a officer of the Mirror
Lancers.  You have made most clear what is required of me, and I hear
and obey.

He lets the ink dry before he seals the scroll and summons his senior
squad leader.  "Olisenn?"

The heavy-set lancer opens the door and steps into the inner study.
"Yes, scr?"

Lorn gestures to the scroll on the desk he is sure that Olisenn has
already read.  "Majer Maran has more clearly outlined our
responsibilities, and I have acceded fully to the scope of duties
required of us.  If you would make sure this reply is sent with the
next Engineer fire wagon ?"  Lorn extends the sealed scroll.

"Yes, scr."  The senior squad leader nods.

"And Olisenn?"

"Yes, scr?"  The oily politeness of the squad leader covers a deeper
contempt.

Lorn continues to smile, almost blandly, waiting several moments before
he speaks.  "If I recall, is not the Accursed Forest the largest
concentration of order and death in all of Cyador?"

"As you say, Captain, that it is."

"And does order not have the property of converting the power of chaos
into sterile death if chaos is not used in perfection?"

"That be what the Magi'i say.  Me, being but a simple lancer, I'd not
be knowing."

Lorn nods.  "Majer Maran has suggested that we must make greater
efforts to keep the Forest creatures from reaching the holders and
their herds and flocks."  He frowns.  "We may have to make some changes
to ensure that forms of sterile death are restricted to the Forest, and
that, somehow, we can do such without casualties.  It will be a
challenge, but, as Majer Maran has pointed out, that is indeed our
duty."

"We've not been losing many lancers, scr.  That is, not so many
recently."

"True... but we'll have to stop more of the creatures."

"Order it as you see fit, scr, and we'll carry it out."

"I'm sure you will.  Still... one never knows when matters change, and
I wanted you to know that we have been ordered to make changes."  The
captain nods politely, waiting before adding.  "It's been said that in
the past, some senior squad leaders developed their own communications
with the command in Geliendra.  You wouldn't know of that, would
you?"

"Me, scr?  That would be against the line of command, scr."

"So you never thought of anything like that?"

"Me, scr?  Noser"

"I'm glad to hear you say that, Olisenn."  Lorn smiles.  "That's all
for now, and please make sure that scroll gets to Majer Maran."

"That I will, scr."

Olisenn is lying about communicating with Geliendra, not that Lorn has
expected otherwise, but now it is clear that matters will change...
must change.

After checking the Patrol reports he has written once more, Lorn puts
them in the foot chest and locks it, useless as that clearly is against
Olisenn's surveillance, but somewhat effective, he hopes, against
Olisenn's understanding of what Lorn knows.

Then he steps into the outer office, but Olisenn has already
departed.

Lorn ponders his next steps as he walks slowly toward his personal
quarters.  Maran's scroll is clearly an attempt to put Lorn in an
impossible situation.  Use of chaos by lancers is effectively
forbidden, and now Maran has insisted that Lorn not let a single Forest
creature escape.  Under the current circumstances, that will run
lancers and mounts into the ground, and increase casualties.  Increased
casualties mean fewer lancers and more likely more animals escaping.

He takes a deep breath as he enters his deep quarters.  He paces in a
narrow circle for a time, then takes the silver volume from its
concealed resting place and begins to page through it, half-wondering
if the ancient Firstborn who had written the lines contained in the
imperishable pages had ever faced a Majer Maran.  What sort of steps
would he-or she- have taken.  What provisions made?

He continues to page through the volume.  Suddenly, he stops, and
reads.

I have no soul, but a nibbled kernel... feelings dried and stored on
the shelves of self in the deep cellar where provisions must be made

Provisions must be made.

I made them gleaning those wild leftovers of un harvest days, hoarding
hard-to-come-bys of cold reason against colder seasons.

Provisions must be made, and I have made them.

Slowly, he nods.  While not exactly analogous, the basic truth is
there.  Provisions must be made, provisions of cold reason against
colder seasons.  Perhaps... just perhaps... the Firstborn were not all
that different, after all.

That does not comfort him, and he shivers ever so slightly as he closes
the volume.

LXXXVI

Provisions must be made..."  The antiquated words run through Lorn's
thoughts as he rides the white gelding slowly to the southeast, this
time patrolling the perimeter road with Kusyl and the second squad.  He
feels as though his neck and back get twice as stiff when he rides with
the first squad, and it is a tremendous effort not to watch Olisenn all
the time.

Yet he has nothing that he would actually call proof against the
heavyset squad leader, only the knowledge that the man is communicating
with Majer Maran and lying about it, only the growing contempt the
senior squad leader has for Lorn.  And Olisenn's contempt does not seem
based in fact, for all the other officers, and even Kusyl, have
acknowledged in some fashion that Second Company has handled far more
ward-wall breaches than has been common, and with far fewer casualties
for all the dangers involved.

No... Lorn had not done as well as he should have at the beginning.
This he acknowledges, at least to himself, but no one offered
assistance, and he had had to learn on his own.  He also had to learn,
that, as part of its efforts to strike against Cyador, the Accursed
Forest always seemed to have its wild creatures attack the lancers
before making their escapes.  Or was that because they do not attack
until they somehow know the Lancers and the Engineers are going to
destroy each particular fallen tree?  Which of those may be true, Lorn
still does not know, only that the pattern has held for the time he has
directed Second Company.

He puts his weight on the stirrups for a moment, lifting himself off
the saddle, then looks to his right at the too-spread, line-abreast
formation.  Are he and the lancers being asked to hold back the
Accursed Forest with no real hope of success in the years ahead?  Just
to purchase years or seasons for Cyador?

He laughs to himself.  Nothing lasts forever.  That he already knows.
Some time, the ward-wall will fail.  Even if the project Ciesrt had
mentioned works and another way-whatever it may be-is found to restrain
the Accursed Forest from reclaiming all of eastern Cyador, in time
that, too, will fail.  Is that why duty becomes important?

With a headshake, he smiles.  Some men seek power, like Maran, because
life ends.  Others, like his father and Myryan, seek meaning.  But the
world is the same for both, and makes no effort to accommodate
either.

His eyes survey the whitened granite of the ward-wall-stretching
endlessly to the horizon, or so it seems, without a break, without a
stream, without a river.  Lorn straightens.  He wants to shake
himself-not that the observation would change anything-but he should
have noticed.  In all of Cyador, even in the Grass Hills, is there a
diamond-shaped area ninety-nine kays on a side without a watercourse
leaving or entering it?  One with trees and high vegetation?  One with
flat lands immediately around it, which turn into rolling hills and
plains within two kays?

Because the Accursed Forest is, he and everyone else have just accepted
it.  But what sort of power had it taken for the Firstborn to create
such a containment-one that moved rivers and watercourses?  And what
sort of power did the forest possess to survive without such
watercourses?  Can it reach upward and tap the clouds?  Is that why
there is always more rain around it?

"Scr!"

Lost in his thoughts, for once Lorn is not the first one to spot the
fallen tree-another of the mid-sized forest monarchs.

His eyes confirm the alert, and he turns his head toward Kusyl.  "Form
up five abreast here on the perimeter road.  Send a messenger to
Olisenn.  Have him join us a kay this side of the crown."

"Yes, scr."

To the south, over the Forest, clouds are forming, and darkening.  Lorn
wonders if the rain will reach the dead land where they ride and if
they will have to wait through a storm for the Engineers and then ride
through mud to reach Eastend.  With all that seems to be happening, he
will not be surprised if Second Company will face rain and mud.

The second squad gathers itself back into a loose formation on the
road, and Lorn and Kusyl ride just ahead of the first rank of the five
lancers abreast, and on the inward side of the perimeter road.

"Still say more trees fall on the northeast side.  Reyt-he's an
engineer lancer-he says it's 'cause the winds come out of the
northeast."  Kusyl snorts.  "So why do the trees fall into the wind?"

Lorn laughs softly.  "Engineers have to explain, whether they can or
not."

"Like we got to fight, whether we like it or not?"

"Something like that."

The two lapse into silence as they near the point on the perimeter road
closest to the fallen tree.

"Squad halt!"  Kusyl orders.  "Easy in the saddle."

He and Lorn turn to watch the approach of the other squad.

"Scr."  Olisenn nods as the first squad draws up parallel to the
second.

"Staggered lines!  We'll advance now," Lorn calls out.  "Lances at the
ready."

"Staggered lines.  Lances ready.  Stand by to discharge."

With a hundred fifty cubits between the two wide-spaced, five-abreast
formations, the two squads move southward, each almost flanking a side
of the tree's crown.  The staggered lines allow the second line to fire
past the first, as necessary, or to move forward when a lancer ahead
exhausts his fire lance

The squads are still two hundred cubits from the crown when a pair of
giant cats, their shimmering gray coats almost the color of the clouds
gathering over the Accursed Forest, bound toward the lancers-toward the
second squad, seemingly almost directly at Lorn himself.

"Discharge at will!  Short bursts!"

Hssst!  Hhhssssssst!

"Short bursts!  Angel-fire!  Short bursts!"  Kusyl bellows.

Hsst!  Hsst!

Five beams crisscross and find the leading giant cat, and it stumbles
and rolls forward in a heap, dust rising around its body.  The second
creature sprints to the left side of the second squad.  Lorn can see
that, unless he does something, it will escape.  He lifts his own fire
lance and sights, boosting the chaos with what he has learned and
practiced both in the Grass Hills and in secret-and confining it with
the order binding he has seen from the Accursed Forest.

Hssst!

The narrow beam curves and burns through the huge cat's skull, and it
skids along the powdering soil of the dead land "see that!... captain's
getting good with that lance...."  "always been good..."

Lorn's eyes do not remain on the fallen creature, but fix on Olisenn,
and the self-satisfied and sardonic smile that fades as the senior
squad leader glances up to meet Lorn's eyes.  Lorn returns Olisenn's
expressionless scrutiny with an insouciant smile that he maintains
almost as an insult.

Olisenn cannot conceal a frown.

Lorn wipes the smile from his face.  He should not have given any
warnings to the contemptuous senior squad leader, but he has had to
pretend and ignore so much from the man that it is difficult to remain
impassive all the time.

He hears a rustle in the branches, and his eyes and senses refocus on
the greenery that appears dull in the afternoon sun that is dimmed by
the high thin clouds to the west.  He can almost sense the night
leopards gathering.

"There's something coming from the crown.  Leopards, I'd guess."  Lorn
raises his voice and gestures toward the vegetation.  "Olisenn, move
your line in closer!  We don't want any to escape between us.  Not
after Majer Maran's last orders."

"To the right!"  Olisenn repeats, frowning.

"Move it up.  Lances ready!"  Lorn orders the first squad, urging his
own mount to the left so that he is almost beside Kusyl.  "Second
squad, lances ready.  Prepare to discharge!"

The leaves twitch and rustle one more time, and then the leopards burst
forth, not toward first squad, but toward the second squad.

Absently, Lorn wonders if that is because he bears some concentrated
chaos, even as he orders, "Second squad.  Discharge at will.  First
squad!  Hold your lances!"

The leopards almost reach second squad before fire bursts stud the
air.

Hsst!  Hssssttt!

"Short bursts!"  Kusyl insists.

Hssst!  Hssst!  Hssst!

The short bursts that Kusyl has demanded rain across the fifteen or so
night leopards that are almost among the lancers.

Lorn lifts his own lance as if toward the leopards, raising it slightly
and turning it just beyond the leopards.

Two leopards scream... and one claws at a lancer's mount to Lorn's left
before it falls.

Hssst!  Hssst!

Lorn's eyes cross Olisenn's, and the senior squad leader's mouth opens,
as if to protest, before the single chaos bolt blasts through his
throat.

Seemingly without looking near Olisenn, Lorn sweeps his lance across
two other leopards, letting his own chaos senses bend the flame to take
them down.  Other dark cat figures, some charred, some with but
small-looking wounds, lie across the salt-streaked and powdery dead
land soil.

"Close, scr!"  Kusyl says, glancing around nervously.  "Too close."

Lorn scans the area, but surprisingly, not a single leopard has
escaped.  This time.  Nor are there movements or any rustling from the
snapped and twisted limbs and crushed leaves of the tree's crown.

"Scr!  Scr!"

Lorn looks up, surprised.

"It's Olisenn, scr!"

Lorn urges the gelding the seventy cubits or so toward the first
squad.

When he reins up, two lancers, white-faced, are on the ground with the
prone figure of the senior squad leader.

"What happened?"  Lorn asks.

"Don't know, scr.  When the leopards attacked you and second squad,
scr... maybe a fire lance See... he's burned."

Lorn swallows hard.  That he can do.  "It could have been anyone's.  It
could have been mine.  They were closer than I thought.  It was
probably my fault."  He shakes his head.  "I didn't act quickly
enough."  And that is certainly true, Lorn knows.

After a moment of silence, he adds.  "He was a good squad leader. We'll
miss him."  He looks down.  "If you... Fry gel... would..."

"Yes, scr."

"And Askad, too."

"Yes, scr."

Lorn glances at the tree crown, as if to check to see that nothing else
lurks there, then back at the two lancers.  "I'll be acting as squad
leader... for the rest of the patrol...."  He lets his words trail off,
before straightening in the saddle.  "wish... otherwise."  He closes
his mouth and slowly turns the gelding.

"Captain's upset...."  "wouldn't you be...."  "he charged that
lizard... saved three-four last spring... and those cats... doesn't get
upset... just killed three... right here...."  "doesn't like to lose
lancers..."

Lorn rides slowly back to Kusyl, shaking his head.  "It shouldn't have
happened this way."

"That sort of thing happens, Captain," Kusyl replies with a long face.
"Happened before, try to avoid it, but you spread out too much, and
they get away.  Won't be the last time 'less we get more lancers."

"We won't get enough."  Lorn laughs, a harsh bark.  "We're not getting
any until winter turn."  He takes a deep breath.  "If you'd set up the
sentries, Kusyl.  I need a moment.  Then... then we'll have to send
another messenger to the Engineers."

"Yes, scr."

Lorn needs more than a moment, but a moment is all he will get, since
he will have to take over the first squad, and watch them as well.

The slow roll of thunder from the south, from over the Accursed Forest,
passes across the Second Company, and the south wind rises, with the
hint of dampness that foretells the rain and the mud Lorn is
expecting.

Then too, before long, he expects Majer Maran will be arriving.  Of
that, Lorn has no doubts.

LXXXVII

Lorn glances out the inner study window into the courtyard, where the
early fall sunshine bathes the white granite in a clear light.  Then
his eyes drop to the stacks of papers on his table desk.

In the outer study, a dazed-looking Kusyl is reading through all the
personnel files in the foot chest.  Lorn worries about Kusyl's
administrative abilities, but Kusyl can read and write, if slightly
laboriously, since lancers are not promoted to squad leaders, even
junior ones, unless they can.  More important to Lorn is that Kusyl,
rough-edged as he is, is loyal to Lorn and to the Mirror Lancers, not
to blind ambition.

Should Lorn have acted against Olisenn?  How could he not?  Maran would
not have transferred the man, and even a request for transfer would
have created the incentive for Olisenn, or Maran, to act against Lorn,
and Lorn does not wish to have to deal with both Olisenn and Maran at
once.  Lorn has no doubts, even if he has no proof, that Olisenn was an
accomplice in the removal of Captain Dymytri.  And Lorn has seldom
regretted acting; he has regretted more the times when he has not
acted, as in the case of Myryan's consorting, which he fears will harm
her more than he knows.  Still... that he has been forced so to act
troubles him.

He glances over the scrolls.

Although he has finished the patrol report summary to Majer Maran and
the request for a replacement squad leader and the authority to promote
Kusyl permanently to senior squad leader, Lorn has more than a few
tasks of his own remaining.

One of them is to request, again, replacement lancers for his
understrength company.  Another is to write to his family, carefully,
since Maran will certainly intercept such a scroll and read it.  He
must also consider how to change the tactics of approach to the fallen
trees, in such a way that seems, if not natural, at least
understandable to his men.

Lorn picks up the pen.  A scroll to Commander Meylyd for more lancers
will be the easiest.  He does not expect much, but knows that if he
does not request such, he will be considered lacking in concern for
accomplishing his duties and protecting both the people of Cyad and his
lancers.

After he completes it, his eyes scan the page.  the first squad of the
Second Company stands at twelve lancers, with no squad leader, only an
acting leader from those twelve.  The second squad consists of thirteen
lancers and the new senior squad leader.  Second Company is less than
two thirds its normal complement... but has been tasked with handling
double the number of ward-wall breaches seen in past three-season
periods running from winter through summer.  Therefore... requesting
replacement lancers to bring the Company to full complement, and your
action, insofar as dispatching or promoting a permanent junior squad
leader.... Lorn sets aside the scroll to dry and starts on the second
one, the one to his family that will doubtless be read by Maran or
Meylyd.  the past seasons have exacted a toll on my company, for the
Accursed Forest has continued to press against the ward-walls with
continued presence.  More than that, it would not be proper to say,
save that we have persevered against all manner of obstacles foreseen
and unforeseen... most difficult charge is to ensure that the wild
creatures do not escape to plague the people of Cyad and yet not to
expose the lancers to untoward harm or attack from such creatures...
few understand the true need for the tasks which I now undertake, nor
would I before I had come to Jakaafra....trust that all is well with
you in Cyad, and that Myryan's gardens have indeed borne the fruits she
has hoped for and that Jerial continues to find satisfaction in her
duties as healer.... Lorn smiles as he adds the next line.  I have not
had the time to discover new vintages here in Jakaafra, and so
doubtless will return to Cyad in years to come with my palate at a
great disadvantage.... A few more lines about the apples in Jakaafra,
and the joy of cooler weather, and he signs it and sets it aside to
dry.

Then he leans back, thinking about tactics.  Exactly how can he change
formations and approaches to let him use chaos more freely without
close scrutiny-and make such a change seem acceptable to the lancers,
without their noticing what he must do?

He closes his eyes, mentally trying to visualize what Second Company
has done so often, and dares do no longer.

The scroll to Ryalth will wait until he is in his own quarters and
probably until evening.

LXXXVIII

Outside Lorn's inner study, the first cold rain of fall splats on the
ancient blued-glass panes, and chill radiates from the glass far, far
older than Lorn-or than Majer Maran, who lounges in the single chair
across the table desk from Lorn.

"You have had some time to consider the message in which I conveyed the
sentiments of Commander Meylyd."  Maran's blue eyes express concern.
"Those are also the sentiments of the Majer-Commander in Cyad."

Despite the headache engendered by the storm outside, Lorn returns the
smile with one equally warm.  "I appreciated that you made the effort
to make matters clear.  When one is spending most of his days
patrolling the ward-wall and attempting to contain the Accursed
Forest's creatures and efforts with far too few lancers, one has a
tendency to forget that there are other concerns."

"You have indeed grasped the difficulties facing the Mirror Lancers and
Commander Meylyd," Maran says warmly.  "He and the Majer-Commander must
ensure that all lancer officers, especially captains who command patrol
companies, carry out their duties in a way that is harmonious with the
distinguished reputation of the Mirror Lancers, and that their
enthusiasm for the accomplishment of their individual duties and the
well-being of their lancers does not create a situation at variance
with the higher goals of the Mirror Lancers.  You understand that, and
it is indeed rewarding to work with such a perceptive officer."

"I doubt that I am that perceptive," Lorn demurs, "and for that I have
welcomed your instructions and advice."

"You have obviously considered in great depth my earlier suggestions,
Captain," Maran observes, "and I look forward to telling Commander
Meylyd that there will be no more reports of creatures that have
escaped from the Accursed Forest to plague and disturb the people of
Cyad.  In fact, I will be assuring him that you have gone to great
lengths in using the traditional methods of patrolling to make sure of
such."

"Second Company will be employing all the truly traditional means at
its disposal to carry out the instructions you have conveyed," Lorn
replies.

"The Commander will be most pleased."  Maran's seemingly endless smile
is replaced with an expression of mild concern.  "There is one other
matter."

"Yes, scr?"  Lorn responds in a tone of respect.

"We were all so disturbed to hear of the death of senior squad leader
Olisenn.  He was experienced and well-respected."  Maran touches the
end of his short and trim mustache.  "I suppose that an accidental
death from a misaimed fire lance was one of the few ways such an
experienced lancer could have died."

Lorn nods.  "It's always the things you don't prepare for, I've
discovered, Majer, that are the ones that are the most dangerous.  That
accident was something that none of us anticipated, and that could not
have been foreseen.  I have been reviewing approach plans to ensure
that nothing of that sort will occur again in Second Company."

"You make it sound as though one must be prepared for everything."
Maran laughs warmly and gently.  "No lancer officer can prepare for
everything.  No matter how hard he works, there will always be
surprises.  That's what makes life interesting."  The laugh is followed
by the warm smile that Maran always bears.  "Still, your efforts under
slightly strenuous circumstances have revealed that your emphasis on
preparedness may indeed bear welcome fruit, and we look forward to your
future reports."

"Have you and Commander Meylyd had a chance to consider the replacement
lancer request which accompanied my last reports?"  Lorn smiles
off-handedly.  "I understand that you and the Commander have much to
consider, but since you are here in Jakaafra..."

"Ah... yes."  Maran nods knowingly.  "You will receive replacements at
the turn of season, some three eight days from now, as will all the
ward-wall patrol companies.  The Commander would wish that we could
have fully reinforced Second Company, rather than only return you to
three-quarter strength, but trained lancers are becoming more scarce.
And you have been dealing with the Forest without... permanent...
casualties for the last half season, excepting the unfortunate accident
with senior squad leader Olisenn.  But that was not a result of the
actions of the Forest creatures."

"We have been fortunate," Lorn admits.  "It would be best to be at full
strength, but we understand all the many requirements that the Mirror
Lancers and Commander Meylyd and you must address."  He raises his
eyebrows.  "The barbarians?  Are their depredations... ?"

"We are not informed of such, but I would surmise so."  Maran's smile
widens, and he stands.  "I fear I have little else to add."

"You have been most kind and helpful," Lorn responds as he also
stands.

"Oh... and Captain Lorn, I must tell you again that Commander Meylyd
will be most pleased to learn of your success in containing the
Accursed Forest with the traditional methods.  He looks forward to your
continuing success with such."  Maran's smile and blue eyes remain
warm.

"As do we," Lorn replies, adding after a slight pause, "Will you be
staying at Jakaafra tonight?"

"Alas, those higher duties call, and I will be returning to Westend
with the Engineers' fire wagon so that I may attend Commander Meylyd
tomorrow."  Maran offers a last smile.  "I do appreciate your concern
for my comfort and welfare, and I would that you know I feel the same
for yours."

Lorn bows.  "A fruitful journey, Majer."

"It has been, Captain Lorn, most fruitful."  The majer returns the bow
before he departs.

LXXXIX

Scr?"

Lorn glances up from the papers on his table desk, papers covered with
lines and angles and distances-and the rough-scrawled shape of a fallen
tree... and a set of double lines that represent the northwest
ward-wall.

"Yes, Kusyl?"

"The replacement lancers just rode in, scr.  There's someone to see
you, scr."

"Have him come in."

"Yes, scr."

The tall and broad-shouldered lancer with the single stripe of a junior
squad leader on his sleeve steps into the inner study.  "Squad Leader
Shynt, scr.  Reporting, scr, as junior squad leader to the Second
Company."  The swarthy and black-haired Shynt utters the words as
though they were a sentence to death or exile, his baritone voice bleak
and without emotion.

"Close the door and sit down, Shynt."  Lorn gestures to the chair
across from him and carefully stacks the papers, then replaces the pen
in its holder.

"Yes, scr."

Shynt sits lance-straight on the edge of the armless chair across from
Lorn.

"Black angels only know what you've been told about Second Company,
Shynt."  Lorn's voice is conversational.  "Would you care to share any
of that, or would you prefer I guess?"

"Scr... I've been told nothing."  Shynt's voice remains bleak.

Lorn ignores the lie, then tilts his head to the side slightly.  "You
are a very good squad leader, and you also dislike incompetent
captains.  You aren't good at concealing that fact, and as soon as the
opening for a squad leader here appeared, you were selected."

"Scr?"  For the first time, Shynt's voice loses its almost brittle
edge.

"You were doubtless allowed to learn-and someone will ensure you hear
it if you haven't already-that I'd managed to lose the most experienced
squad leader in all of the Forest patrol companies through a totally
avoidable mistake.  Then, I'm sure through overhearing and 'accident,"
you were allowed to discover that more Forest outbreaks occur along the
northeast wall than along any ward-wall, and that Commander Meylyd and
others are most concerned about that and about Second Company. Finally,
someone suggested, most indirectly, that only you could put it right,
leaving matters to your own initiative."

Shynt remains rigid in the chair, as if he dares not speak.

"You also probably escorted the most inept group of replacement lancers
you have ever seen, and have just discovered that they won't bring
either squad up to more than three-quarter strength."

When Lorn stops talking, silence is the only response.

"And now you don't know what to say," Lorn laughs softly, ironically,
but Shynt remains immobile.  "That's because most or all of what I've
said appears true to you, and because you know you can't lie
convincingly, which is why you were picked for this impossible duty
assignment."  He pauses.  "Except it's not impossible.  Only Majer
Maran believes it's impossible, because he believes concealment and
evasion are stronger than truth."  Lorn's amber eyes lock on Shynt's
black ones.  "Tell me, squad leader Shynt, are you strong enough to
deal with truth?"

"Yes, scr."  Shynt's tone is close to defiant.

"Good.  Before you leave the outer office, before you do anything, you
will read all the patrol reports for the last five years, and you will
tally up all the fallen tree trunks encountered by Second Company under
each of its captains.  You will also tally the casualties by year under
each captain.  You may ask senior squad leader Kusyl any questions you
wish, and I suggest you do.  Then, you will come back into my office
and report what you have discovered.  Is that clear?"

"Yes, scr."  An edge of bewilderment colors the squad leader's voice.

"Good."  Lorn stands.  "I will be here as long as it takes you.  But,
since we'd both like to eat, I suggest you set to it."  He bends and
lifts the unlocked foot chest, setting it on the side of the table
desk.  "You may read anything else in here as well, if you think it
will help your understanding."

"Yes, scr."

Shynt takes the chest carefully, and Lorn opens the door to the outer
study for him, then closes it and returns to the diagrams and
calculations on the papers that he unstacks and spreads once more
before him.

It is late afternoon before there is a th rap on the door, although at
times Lorn has heard voices, often intense, if whispered, as though
Lorn might have been listening.

"Come in," Lorn says, restacking the tactics sheets, with which he
thinks he has reached a solution.

"Scr?"  Shynt stands in the doorway with the foot chest in his arms.
"Might I return this?"

"Come on in and close the door.  Set it on the floor against the wall
there."

Shynt deposits the foot chest carefully, then straightens.  "Scr... I
apologize."

"Accepted, without reservation.  Now... sit down and tell me what you
discovered."  Lorn gestures to the armless chair.

"Scr..."  After he seats himself, Shynt raises a single sheet of paper.
"I could tell you the numbers, but you know them.  Else you would not
have asked.  You had a few more casualties in your first season than
the other captains.  Your-Second Company had close to four-fold the
number of fallen trunks.  You have continued to encounter more fallen
trunks, but your casualties for the past two seasons are less than any
other captain's in a season."

Lorn nods.  "Do you see why I wanted you to read those reports?"

"Yes, scr."

"Did you talk to Kusyl?"

"Yes, scr."

Lorn nods.

Shynt looks down, then the black eyes meet Lorn's.  "Scr... it be not
my province to ask...."

"But you'd feel more comfortable knowing what you stepped into and how
it happened?"

"Yes, scr."

"That's understandable."  Lorn fingers his chin, leaning back slightly
in his chair.  "I am not certain that there is a simple answer.  I'll
try.  When the large trees fall, they create a breach in the ward-wall.
With each breach, Accursed Forest creatures wait for lancers to arrive.
We don't know why this is so, and it is not written down anywhere, but
it happens.  The more trees that fall, the more attacks on lancers, and
if the lancers are not very careful and very good, the more creatures
that escape to attack the people and herds and flocks beyond the dead
land  Lorn smiles.  "There is nothing new about that. But... you know
there are only so many chaos towers that charge our fire lances and
that not every person makes a good lancer?"

"Yes, scr."

"And you have heard that the barbarians to the north are mounting more
attacks every year."

Shynt nods.

"If the Mirror Lancers do not provide more lancers in the north, then
the Emperor will not be able to protect his people from the barbarians.
If there are more lancers in the north, but not that many more lancers
in all the Mirror Lancers..."  Lorn waits.

"There must be fewer lancers here."

"And you have seen that this is true," Lorn concludes.  "But if we have
fewer lancers, and more trees falling, what will happen here in
Jakaafra?"

"Second Company must face more wild creatures with fewer lancers... and
there is the possibility that more will escape?"

Lorn nods.  "Let us say that one giant cat escapes-just one-for every
tenth tree-fall.  If three tree-falls occur in a season, how many cats
will escape over the year?"

"One... three over two years."

"Now... what happens when a company faces twenty-four tree falls in not
quite three seasons?"  Lorn answers the question before Shynt can. "You
would have six giant cats loose."  He smiles crookedly.  "I suggested
such to Commander Meylyd in requesting a full replacement complement. 
It was not well-received."  Lorn shrugs.  "We have done better than
that- with only three giant cats loose, as I recall, but there have
also been more than a few night leopards that escaped.

"I have changed the Patrol procedures slightly.  We do not send a
messenger for the Mirror Engineers until after we have been attacked by
Forest creatures.  We move toward the crown of the tree from the
perimeter road, with two squads flanking it at a half-square angle, and
we use but short bursts on the fire lances

"Such procedures have worked.  Your casualties have been reduced."

Lorn nods.  "I have been strongly requested to return to 'traditional'
lancer patrol techniques, but I have been also ordered not to allow any
wild creatures to escape."  A crooked smile follows.  "Squad leader
Olisenn was most committed to traditional procedures, and I fear that
his inability to adapt to the new procedures may have contributed to
his ending up in the line of a fire lance  I do not know that, but that
is all I can surmise."

Shynt nods slowly.  "If I might ask, scr... what patrol tactics will
you adopt?"

Lorn grins.  "I am informing Majer Maran that I am abandoning those
procedures about which he and Commander Meylyd had expressed concern
and that Second Company intends to do its utmost to stop any wild
creatures from escaping the dead land

Shynt almost smiles.  "Ah... I see."

"Then we will see."  Lorn looks at the black-eyed squad leader.  "So
long as no creatures escape and I do not disobey any direct orders, we
will doubtless hear little."

Shynt nods.  "Thank you, scr."

Lorn stands.  "I'm glad you're here.  Kusyl will introduce you to First
Squad, and I'll ride mostly with you on patrols to begin with, until
we're comfortable."

As Kusyl leaves with the junior squad leader, Lorn closes the door,
then turns.  He looks out the study window at the gray clouds that will
become more prevalent as winter nears, recalling the lines from the
poem in the silver-covered book.

Provisions must be made.

Lorn has made them.

XC

The evening is cold and overcast as Lorn walks across the damp stones
of the courtyard to the stable, and the mist rising from the stones
swallows much of the light from the lamps set in their bronze brackets
along the walls.  The captain wears two sabres-a lancer officer's sabre
on his right and the Brystan sabre on his left.  He also carries a fire
lance  His steps are sure, silent, as he slips into the warmth of the
stable and the welcoming scent of dry straw.

"Suforis?"

"Coming, scr."  Suforis scurries out from the tack room.  "You going
out tonight, scr?"  asks the blond ostler.  "It be mighty chill and
damp, and with you starting out on another patrol tomorrow...."

"I know.  I won't be riding far or hard, and I won't overheat him."
Lorn smiles.  "I promise.  It's just a short ride."

"Be but a moment, scr."  The young ostler hurries off.

Lorn glances around the stable as Suforis saddles the gelding.  As
always, the structure is swept and clean, without a trace of cobwebs or
dust, and the wood of the stall boxes gleams in the dim lamplight.

Suforis returns, leading the gelding and looking anxiously at the
lancer captain as he hands over the mount's reins.  "I'd be going, scr,
but if you'd not be long..."

"You like being consorted?"

Suforis flushes.  "Ah... yes, scr.  Much, scr."

"Good for you."  Lorn's laugh is warm and friendly.  "I will not be
long, but I can groom and stall him, and I would not wish that you keep
your consort waiting."  Lorn slips the single fire lance into its
holder.

"I could wait, scr."

"Go."  Lorn smiles before leading the gelding out through the stable
doors and into the mist of the courtyard.  "You've been here late
enough."

Outside, in the thickening mist; Lorn mounts and rides slowly to the
open gates.  The clicking of the gelding's hoofs is preternaturally
loud, amplified by the mist and dampness.

"Scr?"  asks the gate guard on the right as Lorn reins up in the light
of the lamp.  "You going out?"

"I won't be too long.  I just need a quiet ride to think."

"Ah... yes, scr."

Lorn nods and guides the gelding out into the misty darkness beyond the
walls.  He hopes that the combination of the mist, the darkness, and
the closeness to the ward-wall will preclude anyone using a chaos glass
to determine exactly what he does.  The sentries' low voices are
carried through the dampness to Lorn as he guides the gelding toward
the ward-wall.  "got much to think of..."  "all do... not be an officer
for a guarantee to the Steps of Paradise...."  "not like as we'd be
getting either such, Myttr..."  "none of them, neither..."

A faint smile appears and disappears, unseen, as Lorn continues to ride
along the cross-road that leads to the ward-wall.  To his left, he is
aware of, but cannot see, the granite structure holding the north point
chaos towers.  Once he reaches the ward-wall, he rides to the southwest
for perhaps another kay before he turns the gelding to face the
ward-wall and then reins up, roughly midway between two of the
wall-ward crystals.

For several long moments, he studies the whiteness of the granite wall
and the darkness that looms behind the wall and the chaos-net broadcast
by the crystal wards.  Among the scents that drift out of the darkness
is that of erhenflower.  Did it originally come from the Accursed
Forest?

Lorn draws the Brystan sabre, then concentrates on the flickering
chaos-net, grasping that flow with his chaos senses and turning it
aside, to open once more that narrow window or door to the massive
intertwining of order and chaos beyond the white granite of the
ward-wall.

This time... although a narrow aperture is open-there is no immediate
thrust of power toward the lancer captain, not of chaos or of black
order.

Lorn waits, the black-iron-cored Brystan sabre in his right hand, his
eyes and senses on the Accursed Forest.

As he waits, an image builds, one of bubbling red-white fountains of
chaos, of dark pillars of order, and deep ponds of a different kind-or
color-of order, more shaded in deep gray, and then vines of
golden-white chaos twining around the dark order pillars.  That mental
image vanishes and is followed by a second image-one of which he has
dreamed more than once.

Knives of white fire gouge the very earth, laying down deep trenches
that stretch across the land, and from those trenches rise white walls,
walls that burn into Lorn's flesh if he is to so much as move toward
them.  Beyond the trenches is fire, an endless fire that turns the very
land and trees into ashes.  Rivers are wrenched from their courses, and
hills are flattened by other knives of focused chaos.

Lorn finds he is sweating profusely as the images break off, despite
the misty chill.

A single beam of chaos-order lances through the aperture that he has
created.  The sabre flashes up, almost without Lorn's volition, and
catches that narrow line of power.

Lorn struggles, both instantly and endlessly, it seems, to re-cast the
fire back at the base of the ward-wall where it splays across the
granite and fountains upward in a flare of light.  Even as he directs
that energy, so much vaster than any mage fire bolt he has seen, even
as he lets the chaos-net flow back into place, cutting off the flow of
linked order and chaos, Lorn understands that what the Accursed Forest
has cast out is but a fraction of the power it possesses.

Lorn also understands not just within his thoughts, but with every
sense and feeling he has, that the Forest's power lies in the melding
of all that is within the Forest-and that Cyador and the Forest cannot
occupy the same lands.  With that feeling comes a sadness, a
melancholy, as if it should not be so, and yet cannot be otherwise.

After sheathing the sabre, he turns the gelding, without looking back
at the ward-wall or the Forest beyond, wondering, not for the first
time, why the Forest has not tried in greater fashion to overwhelm him.
Because it cannot, or because it understands that his death would avail
it little?  He laughs softly.  The latter is true enough, for if he
died, the chaos net would flow back in place.  But does a forest,
however filled with order and chaos, have that kind of understanding?
Or does it just play the very patterns of order and chaos, without
understanding, in the way that a river must follow the lines of the
land?

It comes to him, as he nears the gate to the compound, that he will
never know that answer, and that, too, casts another kind of melancholy
over him.

"Scr?"

"It's me.  Captain Lorn."

"Getting worried about you, scr."

Lorn avoids looking surprised.  Has he been gone that long?  "I
appreciate your concern."

"Saw some torches out there...."

"I was trying something with a fire lance Lorn explains.  "It must have
taken longer than I realized."

"That be no problem, scr."

"Good night."  Lorn offers a smile and guides the white gelding through
the gate.  He can tell now that he has not been gone that long, but he
wonders how bright his manipulation of order and chaos was to have been
seen through nearly two kays of the misting rain.

Suforis has indeed gone, but left a single lamp lighted, and the stable
door slightly ajar.

Opening the door, Lorn smiles and leads the gelding back to the stall
to unsaddle and groom him.

When he finally returns to his quarters, the first thing he does is set
the unused fire lance in the corner.  Then he goes to the wardrobe and
studies his face in the mirror on its door.  His skin is flushed, red,
as if sunburned, as it has been when he has manipulated the ward-wall
chaos-net before.

He shakes his head, then removes his belt and sabres, followed by the
damp tunic that he hangs on one of the wall pegs.  His sits on the
chair and pulls off both boots before he returns to the second drawer
on the side of the wardrobe.  From there he removes the chaos glass and
carries it to the narrow desk.

With a half-cynical smile, Lorn looks at the glass, then concentrates
on Maran.

The silver swirls part slowly, and the image of the dark-haired and
mustached Majer Maran appears in the center of those swirls.  Maran
sits before his own desk, pausing as if thinking, with a scroll below,
and a half-empty goblet of an amber wine to his left.  The majer's face
stiffens, as if he too can sense a chaos glass scrutinizing him.

Lorn smiles coldly and releases the image, quickly replacing the chaos
glass between the smallclothes in the wardrobe.

He has barely found Ryalth's volume of ancient poems and stretched out
in his trousers and under tunic on his bed, looking at the
silver-covered book, before he can feel the chill of someone using a
chaos glass to see him.  He smiles faintly, but does not reveal that he
senses the screeing.  Nor does he nod, but merely continues to study
the shimmering cover of the volume of poems, knowing that Maran will
puzzle over that cover.

As the mental coldness created by the distant user of the glass lifts,
Lorn finally opens the book, selecting a page he has read before, the
one Ryalth selected for him so many years before, yet one whose
feelings seem familiar despite the antique slanting characters and the
references and the style used by the ancient writer.

SHOULD I RECALL THE RATIONAL STARS?

There I had a tower for the skies, where the rooms were clear... Should
I recall the Rational Stars?

Or hold my ruin on this hill where new-raised walls are still,

Perfect granite set jagged on the dawn, with striped awnings spread
across the lawn... Lorn thinks about the concluding words, then reads
them softly, aloud, in the stillness of his chamber.

Oh... take these new lake isles and green green seas; take these sylvan
ponds and soaring trees; take these desert dunes and sun swept sands,
and pour them through your empty hands.

Almost... almost... those words bring up feelings like those evoked by
the Accursed Forest with its images.  Or were the images his-created
within his mind by something different from the Forest?

Lorn closes the silver cover of the thin volume, shaking his head
slowly.  Then he stands and replaces the volume in his wardrobe and
begins to complete his disrobing.  The words of the ancient writer and
the melancholy they hold flows over and through him.

Should I recall the Rational Stars...?

XCI

Although Lorn has expected more tree falls as a reaction to his
"practice" sessions along the ward-wall, there have been none for two
full round-trip patrols to Eastend and back since Shynt's arrival.  The
only remnant of Lorn's efforts in the nights along the ward-wall is the
occasional sense of melancholy he feels when he looks beyond the white
granite of the ward-wall at the towering trunks and high canopied
greenery of the Accursed Forest.  He has also had one more dream about
walls that burn and rivers being wrenched from their beds.

The lancer captain pushes that thought away as he rides with junior
squad leader Shynt on the wall road, his eyes scanning the ward-wall,
the Accursed Forest, and the granite stones of the road.  As always,
the Forest retains its greenery, even as winter is arriving beyond the
ward-wall, with chill winds and graying winter leaves, even as Lorn and
Second Company ride through a gray early morning on the second day of
another outbound patrol from Jakaafra.  He is reminded once more of the
differences outside and within the wall by the zzzzpp of an expiring
flower fly against the chaos-net.

Lorn wonders how long before they will confront another fallen tree,
and how long before Majer Maran again appears at Jakaafra and under
what pretense.  Lorn also ponders how he also must carry out his
commitment to Ryalth in a manner that meets the full requirements of
consortship, yet in a way which protects her more than it threatens
her.  And he must continue to improve his control of chaos and order
while not letting his lancers know that is what he does.  That is one
reason why he bears two fire lances in a specially adapted holder.  He
smiles at that thought, for no one, not even Kusyl, has asked about the
twin lances.

"Cool and damp, maybe get wetter, scr," offers Shynt.

"Colder, I'd say, but not wetter."  Lorn is beginning to sense
irregularities in the chaos net and the flow of chaos force along the
wall, but says nothing, just keeps watching the wall ahead as the
lancers ride southeast.

It is not quite mid-morning when Lorn senses what he has known must be
coming, and not much after that when a lancer reports, "Fallen tree
ahead, scr!"

"Shynt, have them form up five abreast and ride out to the perimeter
road," Lorn orders.

"Yes, scr."

Lorn turns the gelding across the dampened but not yet muddy earth of
the dead land and he and the first squad cross soil that smells vaguely
of a harbor, and more so with each hoof that strikes it.

Kusyl and the second squad are waiting at the perimeter road for Lorn
and the first squad, reined up a good kay to the south of the point on
the road directly north of the fallen tree.

"First squad stands ready, scr," Kusyl reports as Lorn and Shynt ride
up.

"Good.  We'll stay on the road until we're opposite the crown, and then
reform into two squads.  The men know we'll be trying something
different this time?"  He looks at Shynt, then Kusyl.

"Yes, scr."

Lorn nods and urges the white gelding along the perimeter road, his
eyes checking the tree canopy as they ride closer, but he sees no
creatures on the trunk or beyond the canopy, not that he would expect
such.

Finally, he turns, "Halt here."

"First squad, halt!"

"Second squad, halt!"

Lorn turns the gelding off the road and rides forward perhaps a hundred
cubits before reining up and waiting for the two squads to form up
flanking him.

"Second squad forward!"

"First squad, right turn."

As the squads draw into their staggered five-abreast formations, Lorn
continues to watch the fallen tree, but sees nothing.  To his left, he
knows, perhaps as few as five kays southeast, lies the non-functional
midpoint chaos tower, but it is just beyond his vision.

"Second squad stands ready, scr!"  Kusyl calls.

"First squad ready."

Lorn raises his hand, then begins to ride forward, alone between the
squads as they close the distance to the crushed canopy of the fallen
tree.  Approximately seventy-five cubits separate Lorn from the first
squad on his right, and seventy-five cubits from the second squad on
his left.  He now wears the Brystan sabre on his waist, although he has
never called attention to his switch in weapons.  And he carries the
two fire lances in their specially adapted lance-holder.

When Lorn is about five hundred cubits from the tangled and crushed
crown vegetation, he removes one of the two fire lances and calls,
"Lances ready!  Prepare to discharge."

Both squad leaders echo his command.

In near silence that follows, as Second Company rides closer, Lorn's
hearing seems to sharpen and he can pick up a few phrases across the
distance.

"Why is he doing it like that?"  "maybe since the old squad leader got
killed..."  "like he's mad..."  "more like bait, 'cept he's got
teeth..."

"Cats get him sometime..."

"You haven't seen him..."

At two hundred cubits from the tree's canopy Lorn can sense the tension
ahead, and calls out again, "Prepare to discharge lances!"

The gelding has carried Lorn to within a hundred and fifty cubits from
the canopy when the pair of giant cats break from the screen afforded
by the twisted limbs.  They bound, predictably, bound toward Lorn,
drawn by the sense of chaos and order he embodies.

Lorn raises his fire lance aiming at the rear cat, the one that will
always turn and angle away, given the opportunity, waiting until the
beast is almost within the range of a traditional fire lance

Hhsstt!  The animal drops as the single bolt drills through it, a fire
bolt that does not curve that noticeably under Lorn's chaos control.

The first giant cat seems almost to stumble, then launches itself
toward the lancer captain.

Hhhsssttt!  The line of fire burns away its eyes and upper skull.  Lorn
does not lower the fire lance until he is certain the beast is dead.
"see what I mean..."  "no one that good with a lance..." "...captain
is..."

"First squad!  Close in about fifteen cubits!"  Lorn orders, mentally
checking the angles as he overtly switches fire lances  Next, once they
are within a hundred cubits, will come an attack by the night
leopards.

Lorn slows the gelding until the first squad has eased toward him,
closing the gap that had widened back to about seventy-five cubits,
before he lets his mount resume a slightly faster walk southward and
toward the creatures that await them.

The strange sense of melancholy passes over him, but he pushes it
aside, his eyes and senses centered on the danger ahead.

The canopy branches rustle, then tremble, but no leopards appear.  Lorn
slows the gelding, knowing that the attack will and must come, that it
will follow patterns that the Accursed Forest has set.  "Stand by to
discharge lances!  Short bursts!"

That command is barely repeated before the two packs of leopards emerge
and accelerate toward the lancers.  "Discharge at will!"  Hhsst! Hssst!
Hssst!  Firelance bursts flare across the packs.  Lorn wheels the
gelding to the right, charging just behind the first squad, moving to
anticipate the pair of lagging leopards who will sprint northwest to
escape the lancers.

Focusing his fire lance on the leading black cat of the two that trail,
he discharges the entire lance before the cat staggers and tumbles. The
trailing cat, cut off by Lorn's charge, abruptly shifts and springs
straight toward the captain.

Lorn takes down the last leopard with the Brystan blade-or actually-the
chaos-fire he extends beyond the cupridium tip of the curved blade.  At
the angle he has used, he doubts that his lancers have seen what he has
done, and even if they have, few if any will understand or remember
that the sabre seemed impossibly long for one short moment, but Lorn
has no intention of allowing the cat close enough to harm him or his
mount.

Breathing heavily, Lorn reins up the gelding.  He still holds the
depleted fire lance and the Brystan sabre.  Once he is certain both
fleeing leopards are dead, he switches fire lances and turns the
gelding back toward the point where, as he has ordered earlier, the two
squads have drawn up facing and flanking the crushed canopy of the
fallen tree.

The two squad leaders ride from their squads and toward Lorn, reining
up perhaps fifteen cubits away from their captain.

"First squad reports, no creatures escaped, scr," reports Shynt.

"Second squad reports, no creatures escaped, scr," states Kusyl.

"Good."  Lorn nods.  "I'll have the message for the Mirror Engineers in
a moment."  His eyes burn, and his head throbs from his use of order
and chaos.  As he continues to look at the two squad leaders, his
vision blurs, and for a time, there are two images of the two men.

He blinks, and the images merge, but the headache remains.  Also, he is
aware that his uniform is far damper than those of his squad leaders
and lancers, and even the muscles in his thighs are close to cramping.
Still, he turns in the saddle and says easily, "Kusyl, Shynt, have the
squads stand by with lances ready, but if there's no movement for a
while, then you can set up the sentries for the afternoon and
evening."

"Yes, scr," reply both squad leaders in near-unison.

Lorn slowly replaces the sabre and the fire lance and then pulls out
the message blank for the Engineers.  Even at one tree-fall every three
patrols, it will be a long winter.

XCII

Lorn reins up under the green barrel and just beyond the narrow porch
that leads into Dustyn's establishment.  As he dismounts, the lancer
captain glances upward at the heavy gray clouds, hoping that his
business with the factor will not take too long and that he can ride
back to the compound before the downpour that threatens actually
begins.  He ties the gelding to the bronze ring of the hitching post
outside Dustyn's narrow porch, then climbs the steps and enters the
narrow foyer.

He reaches to pick up the bell when the thin face of the factor
appears.

"Morning, Captain," offers Dustyn.  "Must be a stand-down day for
Second Company, seeing as you'd be here so early in the day."

"It is one of those few days," Lorn admits.

"You'd be wanting some of the Alafraan, I'd wager, not waiting for your
messenger fellow to bring it."

"I could do with a bottle or two," Lorn admits, "but that's not the
reason I came."

Dustyn opens the door and gestures for Lorn to follow him along the
corridor and into a side study even smaller than the one assigned to
Lorn at the north point compound.  Besides the small high desk there
are but two stools.  The inner wall is stacked with foot chests, three
abreast and two high.  The gray curtains on the single window are
dusty.  Lorn ignores the cobwebs as he takes the proffered stool.

"And what can this poor factor in spirits and other liquids be doing
for a mighty captain of lancers, might I ask?"  Dustyn grins at his own
words.

"Well might you ask," Lorn returns, grinning as well, "for you are a
well-respected factor, and one who can accomplish tasks that none would
know or suspect, saving that they be accomplished, and none beside you
could have done the same."

Dustyn guffaws, shaking his head.  "Aye, and you should a' been a
factor with such words, or stayed in the family trade, if'n that were
their lineage."

Lorn looks at Dustyn, continuing to grin.  "Well... you are a factor,
one who can arrange many things."

"So it is said, but what is said is often more than I can do."  Dustyn
chortles loudly.  "And I tell folk that I can do anything!"

"Do your talents go so far as to arranging for a consorting, one to be
recorded here in Jakaafra?"

Dustyn frowns.  "One of the parties, the man to be sure, would have to
live, say... in some proximity and be known by someone... if one of
your lancers... you and I could... you know, such is frowned
upon...."

"But not forbidden," Lorn points out.  "All who have left their
families' households or established their own have the right to a
consort of their choice."

"Aye, and like as it is not always easy for such... should the
households from which they come differ more than a fingertip in...
shall we say, the style of their lace and their privacy screens?"

Lorn nods.  "But I would have this arranged.  You-or those respected in
Jakaafra-know the man, and some even know of the woman."

"Why would... I should not ask."

"Let us just say that both the man and the woman wish this consorting,
and both are old enough and established in their doings that consent is
not required."

"Consent is always required of woman of alt age or elthage," Dustyn
suggests carefully, "and even of women who are mer chanters unless they
hold the house."

"Consent is not required," Lorn emphasizes, with a grin, "although
discretion may be advisable."  Dustyn frowns.

"No ill will come to you," Lorn says.  "Has not your trading prospered
from my suggestions?"

"Mightily, Captain, else I'd not be listening."  Dustyn's face is
expressionless, except for his eyes, which contain a hint of amusement.
"Now... you want this to be a real consorting?"

"A very real one."

"And am I to know the names of the parties?"

"Not until that day, or as close to it as possible."  Lorn smiles. "You
understand merchanting, for you are an excellent factor, and you could
call this consorting a matter of trade.  It is, in a way, as you will
see when the season is right."

At the terms "a matter of trade," the factor's brow furrows slightly.
"Now, Captain, I'd been thinking this might be a lancer officer
consorting with a lovely lady from, some might take it, understand, a
senior commander's household or even a Magi'i hold or a high family...
a love match, you might say."

Lorn smiles.  "It is a love match, Dustyn... and I promise that you
will not be disappointed in either the match or the trade that benefits
you which will come from it."

The factor finally grins.  "Captain... all say you keep your word in a
place that it be most hard to do, and I must confess that I am mightily
curious, but there be times to wait for the cat to move, rather'n chase
it, and this, I'd be thinking, is one of those times."

"It is indeed one of those times."

"Still... for it to be recorded here, as a real consorting, I needs
must know the names two days afore.  Should be an eight day but... two
days I can arrange, if that be suitable."

"Two days before you shall know, and you will understand then."  Lorn
grins.  "If you do not do so before."  He inclines his head.  "Now...
the second matter... the one less difficult."

Dustyn inclines his head.

"You have seen that goods are coming to reach me... ?"

"Ah, yes, serIn point of being, that I was going to tell you, it
dropped clean from my thoughts at your... request... you have received
three more cases, and two others, of which I cannot fathom."

Lorn nods.  "It appears as though I will be stationed here for a time,
perhaps for many years, and my family is attempting to make my life
more comfortable, yet..."

"You'd be looking for a small place a yer own?  Thinking on...
consorting, say?"

"I'm too young for that, yet," Lorn says with a straight face, "as this
business has shown me for sure.  But... I'd not want to go through what
this fellow will face when the time might come.  And, I cannot keep
leaving cases in your cellar, not dry goods, nor..."  Lorn shrugs. "You
know that officers often do such, because we cannot keep much more than
uniforms and weapons.  I think I have a local woman, a consort of one
of those who maintain the compound who will keep such a dwelling for
when I need it.  If you can find such a dwelling."

Dustyn laughs.  "That be easier, far easier than the first, for I know
of four such, and that be without lifting my eyes past the road
east."

Lorn frowns.

"Ah... captain, the young folk now flock to Cyad or Fyrad or even
Geliendra.  Even my own Asbyl-she be consorted to a factor's son in
Geliendra, and never shed a tear on her way south."  Dustyn shrugs.
"Fact be... my ma's place.  I fixed it for her, Asbyl, I mean, even new
tiles on the roof.  I'd been wondering... you could have it for a
silver a season, if you'd be keeping it neat.  If it's as you say, I'd
be selling it to you for ten golds, any day you wish."

"I would not wish to...."

"There's but three of us, and Hyul took Da's place last year.  Wryul'n
I... our place got rooms we don't use from one season to the next.
Now... I couldn't give ma's place away'.  Youd be doing me a favor, a'
sorts, and, well, without the trade you and your friends at Ryalor
House brought me... be a harder life for us...."  Dustyn smiles almost
sheepishly.

Lorn lifts his hands helplessly.  "Done."  He extends two silvers.
"I'll take two bottles, and if this would pay for the use of the
dwelling for a pair of seasons."

"You trust speaks well for you, Captain, but best you see it, first."
Dustyn glances outside, not taking the coins.  "Not yet.  You have a
mount.  I'd be meeting you in front."

Not long after Lorn has mounted, Dustyn appears on an almost swaybacked
brown mare, and the two men ride along the narrow lane until it joins
the road leaving Jakaafra to the east.

Lorn hopes that what Dustyn has said about the dwelling is accurate,
but the factor has been reasonably fair in all his dealings.  So the
lancer captain rides and watches to see what awaits him on the east
road.

The dwelling sits on a low rise on the eastern road from Jakaafra, less
than a kay from the square, and just beyond the kay stone that notes
the town center is one kay away.  The new roof tiles glisten pale
green, even in the dim light of the cloudy day.

Dustyn dismounts heavily, and limps slightly, past the privacy screen
and to the door, which he opens with an ancient bronze key.  Lorn
follows, and silently walks through the house.

The dwelling is small, as Dustyn has said, with but a bedchamber, a
larger room containing a tiled stove and space for eating and meeting,
a bath-chamber, and a rear room for storage, no more than five cubits
on a side.  There is a serviceable bed, even a doorless armoire, in the
sleeping chamber, and a table with three old oak chairs in the main
room.

"Even got a handful of pots there."  The factor gestures to the golden
oak cabinet beside the stove.  "And a few pieces of crockery."

The floor tiles are a pale blue, faded by time, but not cracked, and
the joins have been recently grouted.  There are both interior and
exterior ceramic privacy screens, and the hedge providing privacy for
the small rear portico needs but little trimming.  There is a stable
that will hold two horses, but without space for a carriage.

As the two stand looking at the privacy screen before the front
entrance, Lorn nods.  "This will do well for me."

"I was thinking it might."

Lorn extends the silvers again, adding a third.  "If I could trouble
you to bring the goods in your cellar sometime in the next eight day or
so... ?"

"A pleasure, Captain, a pleasure."  Dustyn glances upward.  "Best we be
getting back.  I'd not be thinking I'd like to be getting too damp, and
you've a much longer ride than do I."

Lorn nods at that and remounts the gelding.

The first drops of rain begin to dribble out of the gray sky when Lorn
is little more than a kay out of the town of Jakaafra on his return to
the compound.  By the time he rides through the gates the rain is
falling so fast that he can scarcely see a hundred cubits ahead, and he
is most grateful for the stone-surfaced roads of Cyador.

Water pours from his uniform and has plastered his garrison cap and
hair flat against his skull as he leads the gelding from the downpour
into the stable.

"Scr..."  Suforis looks at Lorn wide-eyed.

"I know," Lorn says tiredly.  "I know.  But there are few days I even
have free to get to Jakaafra."

"Yes, scr.  I'll make sure he gets dry and rubbed down."

"Thank you."  Lorn takes the wine and marches back through the
rain-filled courtyard.  His feet squush in his boots as he walks down
the corridor to his quarters.  After wringing out his uniforms, and
hanging them out to dry-slowly, he suspects, Lorn changes into dry
trousers and a dry under tunic  Then, he dries and oils the sabre and
leaves it out of the scabbard, hoping both will dry before he has to
leave on patrol again.

Only then does he seat himself at his desk and read through the last
scroll from Ryalth once more.  we are quiet house and becoming regarded
as an example for the Clanless Traders.  I have tried to keep our image
that way.  This has been helped by the occasional appearance of a
senior enumerator from elsewhere.  It has also been aided by the growth
of our shipments of a golden brandy that is of high quality.  Since it
and many of our more profitable items are shipped through Fyrad, we are
known to have distant contacts.  Some of those contacts date from the
other ship disaster that we discussed.  They are now pleased to see
that house reborn through its heir.  That is well these days.

While we remain on the topmost level, we are now paying for three times
the space we had previously, and I have purchased a warehouse from the
Jekseng Clan that has never been regarded as well-fated since it was
once rented by a Hamorian trader.  It helps to know the past of some
matters.

I see I have forgotten to tell you that, because of certain information
about timbers, Ryalor House has become involved in other ventures which
we should discuss before too long.  The serving lady you never met also
says all is well.... and I look forward to hearing from you.

Lorn smiles and begins to pen his reply.

My dearest trader,

My two-eight day furlough begins the ninth eight day of winter, and I
have made the arrangements discussed a year ago, and am well-pleased
with the thought of keeping my word on this matter.  I am hoping that
it will be convenient for you to come to the town of Jakaafra at that
time, and I have arranged a modest dwelling for you, so that all can be
handled with decorum and grace.  Should I not be immediately present on
account of my duties, inquire of the factor who has arranged much....
Should you wish to demur, I will make other arrangements to keep this
word whenever you desire it to be such.... Lorn frowns at his words. He
does not wish to seem too formal, but he does not wish Ryalth to be
compromised in the event the scroll falls into the wrong hands.

Finally, he concludes.

As you know, I am less than most perfectly able to express myself under
these circumstances, and must trust to words more formal than what I
feel, but I trust that my actions will express me far better than my
poor words, and that you will understand as you have done so well and
so often over the years.

He looks blankly toward the window and the rain beyond as he finally
seals the missive, his eyes fixed far beyond the grayness of the
compound.

XCIII

As the white gelding carries him southeast along the road beside the
white granite of the ward-wall, Lorn wipes the cold drizzle off his
forehead.  Sweat continues to ooze from under the garrison cap to mix
with the fine rain.  Without the oiled white leather winter jacket, he
would be soaked, but cold as it had been when they had left Jakaafra,
he had chosen the warmer jacket over a waterproof.  The weather has
warmed somewhat, and under the jacket, even unfastened as it is, he is
too warm.

No lancer can carry enough for all types of weather, not and be able to
fight giant cats-not and carry two fire lances and two sabres.

"Far too wet and cold not to wear a jacket," Shynt observes from where
he rides on the outer side of the ward-wall road, echoing Lorn's
feelings, "and too warm to wear such."

Lorn shakes his head.  "And it's not really wet enough for this to help
crops much, and too damp for healthy riding.  No one really benefits.
Some patrols are like that."

"Most... in the winter."

The lancer captain nods in agreement, then glances ahead.  Through the
mid-day drizzle, the white granite oblong bulk of the structure housing
the non-functioning midpoint chaos tower looms ahead and slightly to
the left of the ward-wall road.  Before long, the first squad will have
to ride around the mid-point tower, and then, somewhere beyond that,
farther southeast, they will find another fallen tree.

It has been almost two eight days and two complete patrol circuits
since he sent off his fateful scroll to Ryalth, and he has heard
nothing, but still he must deal with patrols and trees and escaped
creatures.  Then, he reminds himself, it is still early for her
response.  He turns back to study the wall.  His eyes and senses check
the chaos-net and the increasingly irregular pulses of the chaos flows
confirm to him that another tree has fallen across the white granite
barrier-several kays to the southeast of the midpoint tower.  The
irregularity of the chaos-greater irregularity, he corrects himself,
for chaos flows are never regular-remind him again that he pursues a
dangerous path... as his father had suggested more than once.

Yet, being who he is, what other can he do?  Other than smile and make
provisions.

Smile?  The ancient words, in their slanted characters, run through his
mind.

Smiles... images on the pond of being, reflections only made possible
by the black depths beneath.

Black depths-he has black depths.  That he knows as he pushes the words
away.  He knows, too, that what he must do in dealing with the fallen
tree ahead-riding alone as a target-will work, and that no wild
creatures are likely to escape.  He also knows that if too many more
patrol reports show neither casualties nor escaped animals, it will not
be that long before Majer Maran returns to Jakaafra with another chore
in mind- one for which Lorn is not certain he is fully prepared.

Provisions must be made... and I have made them.

But are they enough?  That... he will never know, unless he fails, and
then it will be too late.  With a faint smile, Lorn leans forward
slightly in the saddle and runs the fingertips of his right hand over
the two fire lances one after the other.  Both are fully charged.  Then
he straightens up and studies the ward-wall to his right once more,
trying to guess how many kays they will ride before a lancer will spot
the fallen Forest tree, how many kays before he will have to use
concealed chaos once more, because a magus-born lancer cannot be
suffered to be successful.

XCIV

Lorn looks up from the patrol report he is writing as Kusyl stands by
the door to the inner study.

"This came with the Engineers, scr."  The senior squad leader extends
the white and green sealed scroll.

Lorn stands to take it.  "Thank you.  It will be a bit before I have
the reports ready to go."

"Myserk will stop back before they leave," Kusyl replies.  "He
understands."  With a nod, he steps back and closes the door.

Lorn looks at the scroll, then forces himself to set it on the side of
the desk.  He picks up the pen and continues until he reaches the last
lines of the summary that will be dispatched to Majer Maran.  no
casualties, and no creatures escaped.  Patrol remained on station at
the fallen trunk for two days until Mirror Engineers could respond.
Return patrol without Accursed Forest events.

With a smile of relief, he lays the summary beside the completed full
report for both to dry and finally picks up the scroll Kusyl had
brought him.  Lorn is not that surprised to see that the seal has been
carefully slit from the paper and then re-heated-as shown by the
blurring of his father's "K" on the wax.

He breaks the seal and begins to read.  is always good to hear how well
you are doing.  I have received favorable reports on your progress from
many, including the officer who recommended you for lancer training so
many years ago.  He continues in that post today as well as then.
Apparently, younger lancers are the ones who move more from duty
assignment to duty assignment.... Jerial has spent more time with me
lately, and perhaps I was too hasty in my suggestions about future
consorts.  This is indeed something that we should discuss when you
return, but I would like to assure you that I now believe your earlier
inclinations may have true merit, and would be in your best interests
if you still remain so inclined.... Lorn frowns.  Has Jerial talked
about Ryalth to their father?  Or has Ryalth's success become more
noted?  Or is something else afoot about which Lorn knows nothing?

Vernt continues to pursue his efforts with both diligence and
recognition.  He has been raised to a lower second level, as has
Ciesrt, although both are in very different aspects of magi al
endeavors.  Myryan's garden is a wonder, and she is most pleased with
that aspect of her life and dwelling.... Lorn winces.  He suspects he
knows exactly what his father's words convey, and he can only hope his
younger sister is not too terribly unhappy.

Sylirya has been taken as a consort by a cabinet-maker, so that Kysia
has become the head of the household staff.  She is good enough to run
the household of a trading magnate and will in time perhaps have the
skills needed to assist some high functionary in the Palace of Light,
though we would certainly miss her here.  In time, she will doubtless
leave us for a younger family, but her loyalty cannot be faulted...
Lorn shakes his head with a wry smile.

In the end, little has changed within the house since last you were
here, excepting that we all miss you, and wish you well in your
struggles along the ward-wall of the Accursed Forest.

The lancer captain lowers the scroll, then lifts it and studies the
writing itself, rather than the words.  While his father's writing
retains its ability to offer detailed observations between the lines
and the characteristic angular flow of the letters, there is
something... Lorn studies the scroll more closely, noting the slight
wavering of some pen strokes.  Age?  The toll of being a senior
magus?

Lorn sets aside the scroll and fingers his clean-shaven chin, thinking
about his father's apparent change of heart-or thought-concerning
Ryalth.

Does Ryalth's scroll give any indication of any reason for that?

He takes out the other scroll-the one Suforis had delivered with two
bottles of Alafraan from Dustyn the night previous, after Second
Company had finally returned to Jakaafra, once again running almost
three days late, this time because of tree-falls earlier along the
southeast ward-wall.  With only two of large moveable fire cannons and
the need to recharge them after use, tree-falls close together meant
one lancer company or another had to guard a fallen trunk for several
days, at times.  This time, it had been Second Company's fate.

He unrolls the scroll.

My dearest lancer,

I told myself I would not be disappointed had you forgotten our
discussion of a year ago.  I would have been disappointed.  That I can
tell from my reaction to your scroll.  I will be in Jakaafra for this
venture as you have requested.  The trip will allow me to visit some
factors in Fyrad and in Geliendra and other towns along the route.

All is well with Ryalor House.  We have been able to broker some
additional timber shipments when the amount of timber increased past
the anticipated contract levels, as I had suspected might well
occur.... Why had she suspected?  Because the timber came from fallen
trunks and because Lorn's presence meant more falling trunks?  our
interests in coastal shipping have also offered solid results, for
equally predictable reasons.... Lorn sets down the scroll of his
consort-to-be and laughs.  His father and Jerial must have just looked.
Jerial's wagering ventures have let her overhear much of the gossip,
and many of the facts could not have been hidden.  Not when Ryalor
House has trading spaces three times as large as before, its own
warehouse, interests in coastal ships, and who knows what else that
Ryalth has not told him.

And all because a student mage saved a pretty face from being attacked
years before?  A pretty face that hid so much more?

Lorn glances to the cold and sunlit green-blue sky beyond the study
window.  He hopes that Majer Maran will wait a season or two before
returning, but doubts he will have that much time.  If... if Lorn is
fortunate, he and Ryalth will be consorted, and she will have returned
to Cyad before the majer reappears.  If...

XCV

Lorn puts his saddle bags on the top of the barrel of grain set beside
the gelding's stall and carefully props the pair of fire lances between
the barrel and the stall wall, waiting for Suforis to finish saddling
his mount.

"Be just a moment, scr," the ostler calls.

Lorn smiles to himself, and studies the stable, still as neat and clean
as ever, then runs his fingertips over one fire lance and then the
other, making sure that both are fully charged.  Although the patrol
before the last one had found a fallen tree-the one they'd had to wait
two days for the Engineers to clear, the fact that there had been no
fallen trees on the last patrol made it more likely that he and Second
Company would encounter one on this patrol-or the next.

"We'd be wishing you a good patrol, scr," offers Suforis as he extends
the geldings reins to Lorn.

"We?"  asks Lorn with a grin.

"Me and Lesyna.  She is most pleased to be cleaning and watching over
your new dwelling, now.  Her da even said it was worth the old mare he
gave her, 'cepting the mare's not for much but carrying her.  Leastwise
she can go to town now and visit her folks."  Suforis grins.  "Or carry
a scroll or two when it be not wise for me."

"You don't mind her riding alone."

"Lesyna?  Always liked the horses, she has.  "Sides, captain, what
sense it be to say she'll not ride.  Be different when Clebyl gets
pensioned off and we get proper quarters, screen and all, instead a'
just a big room... and have children... but now?"

"I'm glad it worked out and that you're pleased."

"That be two of us, scr."  Suforis bows his head and gestures toward
the next stall.

"Go ahead," Lorn says.  "You've work to do."

After Lorn fastens his saddle bags in place and slips the two fire
lances into the holder, the captain leads the gelding out of the stable
into the courtyard where the lancers of Second Company are mounting up.
The high thin clouds that had been visible at dawn are thickening into
a more solid gray-or perhaps the dawn clouds just foreshadowed the
heavier clouds moving in from the northeast.  The brief gusts of wind
seem colder as well.

Outside the stable, Lorn mounts the gelding and rides to the north end
of the stable building where Shynt is mustering the first squad.  "Good
morning, Shynt."

"Good morning, Captain."  Shynt glances past Lorn toward the double
column of riders.  "We be ready, scr."

"How is Hykylt?"

"He will ride, scr."  The junior squad leader looks at Lorn and lowers
his voice.  "Were you trained by a healer, scr?"

"One of my sisters was fortunate enough to become a healer, and I
watched closely," Lorn replies.  "I would rather that word not be
spread."  Lorn laughs softly.  "A fierce lancer officer must not be
seen as a gentle healer."

"Don't know many as would call you soft, scr."

"That's best."  Lorn nods and guides the gelding back southward toward
Kusyl and the second squad.

"Ready, scr," Kusyl reports, even before Lorn reins up.

"We might as well get started."

"Yes, scr.  Second squad, forward, in column by twos!"

"First squad, forward, in column by twos!"  echoes from behind them.

Lorn's heels urge the white gelding forward, and his eyes go to the
clouds.  A light snow would be better than rain, but only a light snow.
So they will have rain or heavy snow, he suspects from the twinges in
his skull that foreshadow a storm-headache, as he rides out through the
compound gate toward the chaos tower building to his right.  His face
offers but a pleasant smile when he turns the gelding to the southeast
and the patrol ahead.

XCVI

Lorn steps out of the stable at Eastend and into the twilight of a
winter day.  Carrying his saddlebags, he stretches his legs, and
readjusts his grip on them.  The fire lances have already been
collected and delivered to the Engineer detachment for replacement or
recharging.

The Lancer captain keeps trying to stretch his legs as he crosses the
courtyard toward the quarters he will occupy as a transient officer,
much as Captain Ilryk does when Third Company finishes a patrol at the
Jakaafra compound.  Although Second Company's latest patrol offered no
tree-falls, the ride had been cold and seemed longer than usual. Lorn's
breath leaves white clouds as he walks briskly across the white granite
stones, glad this time for the white winter jacket that he wears.

"Captain!"  A figure in the uniform of a Mirror Engineer waves from
fifty cubits away.

"Majer."  Lorn raises his hand in reply as he recognizes Majer Weylt.

Weylt waits for Lorn to reach him before speaking.  "I'd hoped you'd
get here this evening.  Otherwise, it would have been a lonely evening
meal."

"Are all the other officers gone?"  asks Lorn.

"Yes.  Be just us here tonight.  Captain Strynst is off checking a
tree-fall on the southeast ward-wall.  And the patrol captain here...
have you met Gowl?"

"Just in passing.  We've shared a few meals."

"He's the one who found the tree.  So that leaves us."  Weylt shrugs,
then smiles briefly.  "I'll see you in the officers' dining area
shortly."

"I need to clean up a bit."

"That's fine."  With a nod, Weylt turns and walks toward the building
adjoining the quarters.

Lorn shaves and washes quickly, and pulls on his one clean runic before
leaving the transient officer's room and walking out across the
now-empty courtyard.  When he enters the next building, Lorn can hear
the hubbub from the larger hall where the lancers are already eating.
In the officers' area, the engineer majer is waiting at one of the two
tables, alone.

"I did hurry," Lorn says as he nears.

"I can tell.  The food may not be worth the haste."  Weylt gestures
toward the bottle on the table.  "All I have is Byrdyn, Captain.
Scarcely repayment for that Fhynyco you had for me at Jakaafra."

"After a cold and long patrol, the Byrdyn is most welcome," Lorn
replies, seating himself across from Weylt.

A server in gray appears and deposits a small casserole dish on the
square table, a poor rendition of emburhka, from what Lorn can smell. A
small loaf of a rye-like bread in a basket accompanies the dish.

"How long were you working on the Great Canal?"  Lorn asks while Weylt
fills both goblets.

"Near-on a season.  That's the way it seemed."  Weylt lifts his goblet.
"To better days."  After a quick small swallow, the majer heaps some of
the emburhka onto his crockery platter.

"To better days," Lorn reiterates as he lifts his own goblet and takes
a sip.  Then he serves himself, then breaks off a chunk of the bread in
the basket and sets it on one side of his platter.  "What happened?  I
heard the retaining walls of the Great Canal collapsed...."

"In a way."  Weylt tilts his head, as if thinking of a way to explain.
"You know that the Accursed Forest lies in the middle of Eastern
Cyador.  It's raised just a little, and the land is flat around it, and
then slopes down... well, if it rains too much over or around the
Forest the water has to go somewhere.  And if the land to the south and
west is already soaked, then the Fryadyr River overflows.  It
overflowed, and broke through the levees near Geliendra and then carved
a way to the Great Canal...."

"So... when the rains stopped, the river was flowing into the canal?"
Weylt nods.  "Almost like there had been a river there once.  Maybe
there was, before the Firstborn changed things.  That made it hard.  We
had to build a dam and then replace the levees before we could even
start on repairing the Canal."  He frowns.  "I didn't realize that
they've started using oxen to pull the freight boats along the
canal."

Lorn shrugs helplessly.  "I wouldn't know.  I didn't come that way."

"No one could tell me why.  Oh... they said things like the chaos-cells
for the tow wagons were needed elsewhere.  But that doesn't make sense.
There are plenty of cells."

"Is there plenty of chaos-force away from the Accursed Forest?"  asks
Lorn, almost idly.  "Or maybe they need it to charge fire lances used
against the barbarians."

"That could be."  After taking a swallow of the Byrdyn, Weylt glances
at Lorn.  "You've been carrying two fire lances for the past few
patrols."

"Seems like I've had to.  Even with reinforcements, we're only at
three-quarters strength."  Lorn but sips from his goblet, looking
guilelessly at the major.  "We've had a lot of fallen trees on the
northeast ward-wall."

"I can see where the extra lance might help."  Weylt's tone is even,
unforced.  "Of course, we don't have enough lances to issue two to
every lancer."

"I wouldn't be using a second one if we had a full complement," Lorn
points out.

"There don't seem to be enough lancers anywhere, these days.  That's
true."  Weylt pauses to take several mouthfuls of the casserole before
speaking again.  "Be glad to get home leave, and some good emburhka."

"How long for you?"  Lorn asks between bites of the too-heavily
peppered and overcooked emburhka.

"Another three seasons, at the end of summer."  Weylt's lips twist.
"Afterwards, I'll be back here, just like you will be."

Lorn nods, waiting, knowing from the edge in the engineer's voice that
more is coming.

"You make reports on every patrol, don't you?"  Weylt asks.

"We all do."

"Reports..."  Weylt snorts.  "We even have to report on every lance we
recharge or replace.  By squad and company, of course.  And a separate
place for the officers.  They all go to Majer Maran.  Don't know what
good they do."

"I think every report must go there," Lorn suggests.  "I suppose he
could figure out how much chaos energy it takes each squad to handle
each tree-fall.  Except each one's different."

"They might be trying to find out how much chaos energy it really
takes.  If they have trouble powering the Canal tow wagons..."  Weylt
refills his goblet, and glances at Lorn.

The lancer captain looks down at a goblet still half full.  "I think
not.  With more Byrdyn, I might not wake up that easily in the
morning."

"Then, Commander Meylyd or your Majer Maran might have something else
in mind," suggests Weylt.

"They might," Lorn agrees.  "Who would know, though?"  He takes another
small sip of the Byrdyn.  "I thank you for the wine.  It's been most
welcome... and the conversation."

"Not at all.  I hate eating alone, and you're one of the very few who
understands the position of a Mirror Engineer."  Weylt raises his
eyebrows but slightly.  "Now... or even perhaps in the future."

"I think I do," Lorn replies.  "And it's clear you're of one of the few
here who understands what a lancer captain such as I might face."  He
lifts the goblet.

Weylt lifts his in return.

They both smile.

XCVII

The Emperor Toziel'elth'alt'mer, who carries the elthage lineage
although he has no magely talents, remains at ease in the malachite and
silver chair as he listens to those who speak before him.  In her
smaller chair, back behind his right shoulder, also listens the Empress
Ryenyel.

"Why can we not continue to use the chaos towers that surround the
Accursed Forest to recharge the fire lances and replenish the
chaos-cells for the fire wagons  I have heard many and elegant words
and more words about this," declares Majer-Commander Rynst, "but I
cannot say that I have heard an explanation that fully satisfies me."

"We are using those chaos towers exactly for that," replies the First
Magus smoothly.  "As well you and His Mightiness know.  We are sending
fire lances from Geliendra all the way to the Cerlyni and even the
Jeranyi border in some cases.  Now is not the problem.  It is the
future that presents the difficulty."  After a long pause, Chyenfel
adds, "I have not been exactly silent on the difficulties posed by the
Accursed Forest."

"You have been most eloquent in stating that the Accursed Forest
presents a difficulty," Rynst agrees, his words warm.  "Yet... my
lancers, even my Captain-Commander, as I am most certain you know from
your Second Magus, would know what is so deadly about the Forest that
it is to be feared more greatly than the barbarians of the north. Their
blades claim far more lancers than do the creatures of the Forest."

"There are none so deaf as cover their ears and will not hear."
Chyenfel's smooth voice drips honey.  "Not that you have ever covered
your ears, wisest and most powerful of lancers and Warrior of Light,
but it may be that other lancers, more concerned about what may happen
in the handful of years immediately before us, have done so."

Only the slightest tightening of the muscles around his eyes betrays
the interest of the Emperor.  There is no visible change in the
Empress, who continues to look vaguely amused, as her eyes rest not on
either the First Magus or the Mirror Lancer Majer-Commander, but upon
Merchanter Adviser Bluoyal.

"My dear friend, never have you been so effusive in your compliments."
Rynst smiles indulgently.  "But I beg you explain in terms simple
enough for me to convey to those lancers who may die without the
chaos-cells charged by the Forest towers."

Beside Rynst, Bluoyal looks at the white and glistening stones of the
floor of the audience chamber.

Chyenfel turns toward Rynst once more.  "Perhaps I have tailored my
previous presentations to your great perception.  I will attempt
greater simplicity.  The chaos towers are beginning to fail.  Yet we
cannot move the chaos towers without causing them to fail immediately.
We now have barely more than the minimum number of chaos towers
required to maintain the wards.  At times already, the chaos-net on the
northwest ward-wall is breached.  If... if our effort is not undertaken
soon, it cannot be undertaken at all.  Then the Forest will breach the
wall and surround the remaining towers so that they cannot be used.
So... we can contain the Forest, and lose the excess power from the
chaos towers, or we can refuse to contain the Forest and lose the
excess power from the towers-and turn much or all of eastern Cyador
back to the Forest."  Chyenfel bows to Rynst.

"You are most clear, O master magus."  Rynst pauses.  "Yet you and your
predecessors have assured us of the power of your magely towers.  We
have relied on such.  Now... you say such powers will vanish within
years-or sooner."

"The Firstborn said that the chaos towers would not last forever, only
that their power would be uncontested while they endured.  Now... one
by one, they are failing.  We have but one tower more than the minimum
we need to create the sleep-ward barrier, and thus restrain the
Accursed Forest for generations to come.  If we do not act now, we
cannot act in the seasons and years ahead."

"I could say, although I will not," Rynst declares, "that if we do not
have more fire lances the barbarians will take northern Cyador.  Nor
will I suggest that a barbarian can lop a poor lancer's head from his
body more effectively and more swiftly than can the fastest growing of
trees."

"You are most eloquent, my dear Majer-Commander."  Chyenfel laughs.
"Most eloquent.  Not that I would call you verbose.  Nor vain.  Nor
simplistic.  No, for you see far beyond what passes in this chamber.
You are most wise, and you know that the barbarians remain raiders and
bandits.  You even know that, even were our northern borders
undefended, the barbarians would move but a few dozen kays southward in
your lifetime or that of your children or grandchildren.  And you know,
too, that the Accursed Forest can grow a large tree in two seasons. And
that you lose half as many lancers to the Forest as to the
barbarians-and that is with the ward-walls."  Chyenfel shrugs.  "So I
do not have to tell you that if the ward-walls fail because we maintain
them to charge a few score fire lances you will be fighting both the
barbarians and the Forest, and you will indeed lose.  You are wise
enough to see that and more.  Would that others saw as much."  Chyenfel
bows deeply to the Mirror Lancer Majer-Commander.

"I thank you for your most cogent explanation."  Rynst's tone grows
more indulgent.  "I truly understand that all Magi'i have limitations
that we can but dimly grasp.  We of the Mirror Lancers also have
limitations, for it is difficult to contest with blades alone and far
fewer numbers, an endless flow of barbarians, whether they be raiders
or not."

Toziel laughs-long and loudly.  "I applaud you both.  For both of you
have outlined the dilemma most eloquently.  So eloquently that I must
ponder the wisdom you have so masterfully conveyed."  He stands. "Until
tomorrow."

Ryenyel rises silently, then follows the Emperor from the chamber.

When Toziel and Ryenyel have returned to her salon, he seats himself
one side of the white divan, she the other.  Toziel studies her face.
"You are tired."

"Much occurred."

"Rynst has never been so intemperate.  Nor Chyenfel," muses Toziel.
"Yet I could sense no anger.  Both were acting."

"That is because they were trying to get you to act, my dear.  They
know that what you decide and how you decide will determine the power
to be in Cyador for generations."

"Because we have no heirs."

"Because I would not bear heirs and have them twisted by what must
happen in the Palace of Light.  You understood that from the first, my
love."

"It makes matters more difficult."

"You have time yet," Ryenyel points out.

"Not so much as others think, and those others would replace both Rynst
and Chyenfel.  That is clear, but beyond that... who might know?  A
dozen rationales, or more.... Yet Chyenfel cannot live too much longer.
He is already almost consumed by chaos."

Ryenyel nods for the Emperor to continue.

"Liataphi?  Do you think he wants Kharl'elth to be First Magus to
expose his venality and weaknesses?"

"That could be," responds the mahogany-haired Empress-consort, "but
what of the plot to place his daughter in control of the Yuryan Clan
through her consort Veljan?  She advises him on everything."

"As you do me," Toziel reminds her.

"Veljan is forthright and honest and devoted to his consort-mistress.
So is an ox."

Toziel laughs gently.  "I trust I am not an ox."

"Far from that, my dear."  Ryenyel frowns slightly, showing the
tiredness on her lightly freckled face.  "There is still the missing
ordered-death sabre.  I fear we have not seen the last of that
plotter."

Toziel raises his eyebrows.

"Ten golds... a stolen trade plaque... a dead heir... and a
cupridium-plated sabre filled with iron order-death... and silence."
Ryenyel smiles.  "Each is by itself a trifle.  Less than a trifle.  Yet
your Merchanter Advisor Bluoyal was worried enough about that to ask of
Luss and Kharl.  Did Shevelt know something?  And why is Bluoyal so
concerned about a Brystan sabre?"

"It makes one wonder."  Toziel's voice is near-expressionless.

"It makes me wonder," she replies.  "Shevelt's death is tied to that
weapon, and Liataphi would not have dared such.  Nor could he have used
such a weapon.  Someone wants the calmer Veljan to succeed his father,
and Bluoyal is most concerned about that."  She smiles.  "Then there is
the silence.  Silence is the surest of assurances that an able plotter
still lives.  All crow when such dies, and they crow sooner and louder
when an inept one dies."

"What else troubles you?"

"Bluoyal was telling me-"

"You meet with my advisors without me?"  Toziel's eyes twinkle.

"As necessary."  She arches her eyebrows.  "He was telling me about a
clan less trading house that is wealthier and more influential than
many of the smaller clan houses."

Toziel waits.

"It is called Ryalor House.  He but mentioned it in passing, and
Bluoyal never mentions anything without a reason."

"That tie is stretching, my dear," says Toziel, grinning.  "It is run
by the mistress of a lancer captain who could have been a magus, and
the captain is the son of a magus who is a senior lector-" He breaks
off and looks at her.

They both laugh, almost joyously.

After a time, Toziel shakes his head.  "So why does Bluoyal wish this
known?  He knows we talk."

"Kien'elth's daughter is consort to Kharl's son... and Bluoyal does not
trust Kharl."

Toziel raises his hands helplessly.  "So we have an unknown plotter
advancing both Liataphi and Kharl.  The pair so dislike each other that
none will have them in the same chamber save on the most formal of
occasions."

"Who lies below them?"

"Any number of senior lectors-Kien, Abram, Hyrist-they're the most
senior.  Hyrist and Abram are thought arrogant and self-centered.
Kien'elth is well-regarded, but he is almost as consumed by chaos as
Chyenfel, and so cannot succeed him, for that, as well as for the
reason we both know.  Kien's younger son is solid, but not brilliant
enough for what we have seen.  Kharl will not support Liataphi, nor
Liataphi Kharl.  Luss is Kharl's tool, and for that reason alone, we
dare not replace Rynst, arrogant as he has become, for Rynst knows
that, and that is why he suffers Luss to remain as his second."

"There is something else," offers Ryenyel.

"Oh?"

"The Lady Trader of Ryalor House-her fortune cannot be reckoned... but
she has gained on ventures that only one with knowledge from the
Quarter of the Magi'i would have.  And she has left on a coaster for
Fyrad."

"Most convenient for Bluoyal, I would say."

"What of Bluoyal?"  asks the Empress.

"That is the question, is it not?  Who does he scheme to put in
Chyenfel's place?"

"Someone we do not know-or could not pick."  Her lips turn up.  "Or we
would know already."

"So... my dearest... what should I decide?"

"Agree to Chyenfel's plan.  Immediately.  That will ensure that Rynst
must concentrate on defeating the barbarians without the extra fire
lances from the Accursed Forest.  Also, if Chyenfel is accurate, if
Cyador is to survive, then it must be done, and about purely magely
things, he is usually accurate."

"And then we wait to see who betrays who and why?  And we watch
Bluoyal?  And Kharl and the heirs of Kien."  The Empress nods.

XCVIII

The day is cold but clear as Lorn reins up the gelding before Dustyn's
narrow front porch, and it feels warmer than it is because the winds of
the previous day have died away.  Winter has raced by, or so it seems
to Lorn, for it is six day of the seventh eight day of winter, ten days
until Ryalth is supposed to arrive.  Already, Juist is muttering about
having to take patrols for Second Company's two eight days of
furlough.

Because Lorn will leave on the morrow for another patrol and because he
may not be back until just before Ryalth arrives, he needs to talk to
Dustyn.  He dismounts and ties the gelding to the bronze ring, then
mounts the steps and opens the door.  For the first time since he has
come to Dustyn's establishment, the proprietor is actually standing at
the half-door counter.

"Captain, I been wondering when you might be arriving to let me know
about this mysterious consorting."

"I'm here," Lorn grins.  "I do have a question about it.  The lady is
traveling here, and while she is expected by first day of the ninth
eight day of winter."  Lorn shrugs, "Traveling does not always lend
itself to exact days."

"That be no problem.  The Emperor's rules say that the recorder must
know at least an eight day before.  Wasyk'll bend that to two, knowing
how hard it be for some folk to come up with the silver, but there's
folk tell him a season in advance."

Lorn nods.  "That is good."

"And who be these folk, Captain?"  Dustyn asks.

"I am one of them," Lorn says quietly, "although it would be better if
it were not widely known until afterwards."

"I thought maybe it might be you, Captain," Dustyn says slowly.  "But
when I asked some mer chanters I know about you... no offense, you
understand... they said best they say little."  The factor frowns.
"Seems like you have powerful friends and as many of power that may not
be such, especially..."

"For a mere lancer captain, you mean?"  Lorn offers a sardonic smile.

"Captain... none'd be calling you mere.  Even old Kylynzar been
mumbling about how he didn't like much what you wrote him, but he
couldn't complain none about how you'd stopped the wild creatures.  For
him... well... he complains about aught any time."

"I told him we did our best, and that I couldn't guarantee killing
every wild creature that escaped."

"You been killing most of 'em, isn't it so?"

"So far," Lorn admits, quickly changing the subject.  "I haven't been
consorted before, and I was in Isahl when my sister was.  So what do I
do?"

"Consorting be simple enough.  It be after the consorting that it be no
longer simple."  Dustyn laughs hoarsely, then clears his throat. "Wasyk
be the recorder of consorts and the tax farmer for the Emperor here in
Jakaafra.  Be easier 'n I'd thought, 'cause your havin' a place of
dwelling means no winking at whether you be proper in consorting here. 
Doesn't say which dwelling, but a man's supposed to be consorted where
he has one.  Anyway... you and your lady..."  Dustyn frowns. "Don't
recall your saying her name, and I'll be needing that to give to
Wasyk."  He waits.

"Ryalth... she's an independent trader, and the head of Ryalor
House."

Dustyn shakes his head, even as he smiles.  "Now... some matters be
making more sense.  A lancer captain from a Magi'i family-I did find
that out, not much more-consorting to one of the powerful rising
trading houses... more 'n a few not be pleased to see that kind of
alliance...."

"Why... because they worry about mage blood in mer chanter offspring?
The children can only claim either me rage or alt age heritage.  So
what do we have to do?"

"Plain forgot to finish... you sign the register in front of Wasyk and
seal it there with a silver.  That be it, so far as the Emperor's
concerned."

Lorn somehow doubts that.

"And then your troubles are your own."

"They're always our own."  Lorn pauses, then adds, "I have to be on
patrol starting tomorrow.  If the lady should arrive... well, she has
the welcome of the dwelling... if you understand and would assist in
that?"

"That I can do with great pleasure."  Dustyn frowns.  "She be truly the
house leader of Ryalor House?"

"Absolutely."

"Ryalth... Captain Lorn... Ryalor..."  Dustyn shakes his head.  "Should
a' figured... I should."

Lorn forces a laugh.  "Leave the figuring to others, Dustyn, and Ryalor
House will continue to help you prosper."

"Oh, that I will, scr.  That I will.  Owe you two far too much to be
flapping my chin, outside a' my own place, you see, that is...."

"And to make sure you prosper..."  Lorn slips a silver into Dustyn's
hand.

"Scr... you needn't..."

"I need not, but times have not been easy for you."

"Thank you, scr, and I will be taking the best care when the lady
trader should arrive."

"I know you will."  Lorn glances toward the door.  "And I have to ready
a company for another patrol."

"You do that, scr, and I'll be watching out for you."

Lorn nods as he steps toward the door, and the cold ride back to the
compound.

XCIX

Fat and wet snowflakes swirl past Lorn, so heavily that he cannot see
the ward-wall from the perimeter road from where he rides with Kusyl
and the second squad, so thickly that he is continually brushing slush
and water from his forehead.  He ignores the headache that accompanies
the snow.

After briefly considering stopping the patrol, he decides against it,
at least for a time.  The biggest danger is fallen tree trunks, and
even the snow won't hide anything that large.

"You think this will last, scr?"

"I hope not.  Usually, the big flakes don't.  Then, we're going on
furlough after this patrol."  Lorn says with a rueful laugh that
carries the fifteen cubits between their mounts.  "With our luck, a
cubit of it will fall on the dead land

They both know that while the green crowns of the giant trees of the
Accursed Forest may accept some snow, it will neither remain nor filter
into the warmer green below.

"Or it'll turn to rain and freeze," counters Kusyl.

"Let's hope not."  Lorn has had enough of patrols in cold and wet
rain.

"May not get any tree-falls."

"Let's hope not."

Snow clings to the gelding's mane, and creates wet splotches where it
melts on the thighs of Lorn's trousers.  The two ride silently, through
the hushed whiteness created by the fast-falling snow, and Lorn
continues to brush away snow and water.

Then, as abruptly as it has started, within the space of riding less
than a kay, the snow stops falling, leaving the dead land covered with
white less than a fraction of a span deep.  Only puddles of slush
remain on the granite of the perimeter road itself.

Lorn looks to his right.  White steam-like vapor rises from the heights
of the Accursed Forest, creating a misty effect above the high crowns
and around the ward-wall.

Above them, the heavy gray clouds move swiftly northward.

"We'll get rain before we're done," predicts Kusyl.

Lorn has no doubts about that.  He just hopes it does not create
another fallen tree or delay the patrol too much.

Lorn checks the locks on the armory door, then nods to the duty guard-
from Juist's company.  "Everything's secure.  The Mirror Lancer fire
wagon should be here to replace these tomorrow.  Pass that along to
your relief.  Squad leader Shynt knows already."  Shynt also knows how
to send a message to Lorn through Dustyn, although Lorn does not wish
any interruptions on his furlough.

"Yes, scr."

The lancer captain offers a nod before turning and leaving the small
white granite building.  In the chill of late afternoon, Lorn walks
quickly across the courtyard to pack his bag.  As he nears the quarters
building, he sees Kusyl standing by the door, waiting for Lorn.

"You be moving quickly, scr," observes the senior squad leader, a hint
of a smile running across his face.

"I am.  What about you?"

"I be leaving early in the morning."

"You're riding to Geliendra and leaving the mount there?"

"Yes, scr.  That be allowed."

"I know.  I wasn't questioning."  Lorn offers a smile.  "You're glad
Shynt's the one staying, and not you?"

"Bein' senior squad leader has some privileges, scr."  Kusyl grins.
"What you be doing on furlough, Captain?  If you don't mind my
asking?"

"I've got a place outside Jakaafra.  I'm from Cyad, and it's too far to
try to get home without spending nearly half the time traveling.  I'll
just try to enjoy myself here.  It'll be good not to be patrolling.
What about you?"

"I'm from Fyrad.  Only four or five days down.  Want to see my family.
So I'll travel... and travel."

"Have a safe journey."

"Thank you, Captain."

Lorn slips into the quarters building and back to his own room.  There,
he begins to gather what he will need.  He forces himself to pack the
formal uniform carefully, although shimmer cloth does not wrinkle
easily, and he slips both the chaos glass and Ryalth's book in with his
other clothes.  He certainly doesn't want to leave them behind.

As the familiar mental chill of a chaos glass being used to scree him
falls across his quarters, he concentrates on not allowing himself to
stiffen, but instead fastens the bag and checks the wardrobe, as if to
see what he may have forgotten.  He already wears the Brystan sabre.
The chill fades, but Lorn wonders how often he will feel it over the
next two eight days

The sun is touching the horizon when he finally rides out through the
compound gates and turns the white gelding toward Jakaafra.  He looks
ahead, wondering if Ryalth has come... or if she is still on the way.
He does not dwell on other possibilities.

The sun is below the horizon when he passes the keystone that indicates
he is one kay from the square, and his breath leaves white clouds in
the fading light.

Lorn rides slowly through Jakaafra in the dimness of late twilight,
toward the dwelling he has scarcely used.  The glow of a few lamps
glimmers past shutters mostly closed against the chill of a winter
evening.  Will there be a lamp glimmering at his small dwelling, or
will he be the one to light it and wait?

The scent of burning wood fills the air as he nears the small dwelling
on the east road.  Lorn smiles as he sees lights past the front
shutters, and he forces himself to ride to the stable.  A chestnut is
stalled in the small stable.  As he unsaddles the gelding, his eyes
pick up the blue-and-green-bordered saddle blanket.

With a smile, he closes the stable doors and carries the bag with his
formal uniform and other clothing to the front door.  He pauses, then
knocks, listening for footsteps he does not hear in the dimness of
evening, with the scents of burning wood and cooking spices sifting
around him.  After a moment, the door opens, and Ryalth smiles.  "You
could come in.  It is your dwelling."

Lorn just stands there, at the door, looking at Ryalth, her red hair,
faint freckles, and creamy skin.  He finally speaks.  "I'm so glad
you're here."

He steps forward.  So does she.

How long the embrace lasts, Lorn does not know.  Nor does he care.

When they step apart, he studies her again, unable to stop smiling.

"The way you look at me..."  She looks down.

"I missed you.  Each time I see you after we're apart, I realize that
more."

"Sometimes... you're still that student I met that night.  After all
these years, it's hard to believe you still want to see me that
much."

"More than when I was that student," Lorn admits.  "Much more."

"For that, I am glad... more than glad."  Her eyes twinkle and her lips
curl into a smile as as she steps around him and closes the door,
clicking the bronze latch in place.  "We might be better off with this
closed."

Lorn looks back.  He had forgotten the door.  "I suppose I do need to
clean up," he finally admits as she turns from the door.  "I didn't
want to take the time after we finished the patrol.  I was just
thinking about how you might be here...."

"You were more than thinking, my lancer captain.  That I can feel."

Lorn can feel his face redden.

"So was I."  Her voice is gentle.

After a moment of silence, Ryalth continues.  "There is a stew and some
bread.  I have tried my cooking skills.  I find I'm not preparing meals
as often these days.  This stove is like the one at my Aunt
Elyset's...."

"Old, I know."  Lorn grins.  "Of course, cooking is possibly beneath
your wealth as a rising trading house?"

"Wealth... ?"

"Wealth, I suspect.  I've heard from many sources..."

"Go... and wash up."  Although her voice is stern, her eyes sparkle.

"As you command, Lady Trader."  Lorn can't help grinning.  "As you
command."

"Your supper will be ready before you are," she cautions.

"I'll hurry."  Lorn finds himself flushing again.

Ryalth smiles as she shakes her head, before turning and walking back
to the ancient ceramic stove that is built out from the far wall.

Lorn carries his bag to the bedchamber.  He unfolds the formal uniform
and hangs it in the armoire.  He smiles as he sees the two sets of
blues- one very formal on one side of the hanging part of the armoire.
After unclipping his scabbard and leaning the weapon in the corner of
the bedchamber, he makes his way to the small bathing room where he
washes quickly with the two buckets of water and the pitcher of hot
water Ryalth has clearly heated for him.

Then, before he comes to the table, he retrieves a bottle of the
Alafraan from the small rear storage room.  "Such cooking deserves a
good wine."  He looks for glasses in the small cupboard but can find
none and settles on two mugs that are but slightly chipped.  After
uncorking the bottle, he fills the mugs two-thirds full, and stands by
the table.

"We deserve it, one way or another.  I hope as reward.  You may need it
as recompense.  You can sit, dear lancer."  The redhead sets the stew
kettle on the cracked green ceramic trivet in the middle of the table.
She sniffs.  "Oh... something's burning."  She scurries back to the
stove and uses a heavy woolen mit to open the oven door.  A curl of
gray smoke drifts upward as she struggles to get a short baking paddle
under the roughly circular loaf of dark bread.  After a moment, she
turns and eases the loaf into a dry woven grass basket that she carries
to the table.  "Good.  It didn't burn.  It was just the dough that I
slopped on the bottom of the baking grate."

"You don't slop things."  Lorn pulls out the ancient armless wooden
chair and seats himself.

"When I cook, I do."  Ryalth seats herself.

Lorn takes the battered wooden-handled cupridium ladle and dishes the
stew into Ryalth's crockery bowl, then into his own.  He nods toward
the basket and the steaming loaf.

"You don't trust my cooking?"  Her tone is mock-plaintive.  "Even
before we're to be consorted?"

"My most honored lady trader, I have always trusted your cuisine...
long before I proposed this coming consortship.  Or have you forgotten
that so soon?"  Lorn does his best to mimic her plaintive tone.

Her laugh is a warm caress, and he smiles inanely.

"The sole worry I have had about you," he says, "is your traveling all
this way from Cyad into the near wilds of the east of Cyador."

"I did not travel alone, but your factor friend Dustyn was kind enough
to provide lodging... for Eileyt-I thought it wise to bring an
enumerator-and a hired guard."

"You were probably most wise, and even wiser not to have them here."

"Wiser for you... or for me?"  Ryalth arches her fine eyebrows.

Lorn finds himself flushing, and takes refuge in a mouthful of the
crusty hot bread.  He swallows abruptly, reaching for the crockery mug
that holds his Alafraan, as he senses the chill of a chaos-glass
casting for him.

"Still?"  Ryalth murmurs, her lips barely moving.

"It is the second time since I came off patrol," he murmurs back,
lifting the mug in a toasting gesture he does not feel, forcing a
smile.

"To us, despite those who watch."  Ryalth responds with a smile that
appears less forced than Lorn's feels to him.

"To us."  His smile feels more natural as the chill of the glass
fades.

"Has this happened often?"  she asks quietly.

"At times since I've been here, but more often recently.  A majer in
Geliendra suspects that I am more than I appear.  What of you?"

"But a time or two, and the chill was not near so... unfriendly... not
so cold."

"Perhaps it was my father.  He has recently hinted that I was right
about you, and that he was mistaken."

Her fine eyebrows arch.  "Your father of the Magi'i-the renowned Fourth
Magus?"

"There is no Fourth Magus," Lorn points out.

"Not in name, but that is what many call him, in respect," Ryalth says.
"All throughout Cyad."

Lorn laughs.  He cannot help it.  "He tries to discover more of you,
and you of him, and neither tells me."

Ryalth shrugs so helplessly that Lorn finds himself shaking his head,
half in admiration, half still in amusement.

After a moment, Ryalth takes a sip of the Alafraan, and then some of
the stew.  "It does have a good taste."

His mouth full, Lorn nods.

They both eat for a time, until Ryalth looks up.  "I've never been
consorted," she says slowly.

"Nor I, dear lady."

"I know it must be recorded for the Emperor."

"Recorded for, but not sent to him," Lorn points out.  "Unless
requested.  It may be that no one will request the records of the town
of Jakaafra for a long time."  He shrugs.  "If they do, what will they
find?  That a lancer consorted with a mer chanter lady?"

"That is but what they would find in Cyad."

"But where they find it conveys a far different message.  Were we to
consort in Cyad, all manner of schemes would be placed at our
doorsteps.  Here... the message is that we wish to escape notice."

Ryalth frowns slightly.  "You think that to be true?"

"I hope many will take it so.  If indeed they discover such."

"With Magi'i screeing us both?"

Lorn shrugs.  "They may not scree farther, now that they have seen us
together in a quiet dwelling.  If none see the signing of the book
tomorrow..."

"I care not who may know."

"I would prefer none know till you return to Cyad.  I will give you
scrolls to my parents, and Myryan."

"You would make me a messenger, now?"

Lorn flushes.  "I meant just for you to carry them to Cyad and send
them by messenger from there.  That way, they would learn earlier."

"So long as that is what you intended..."  The serious phrasing that
begins her admonition gives way to lilting, almost laughing, words that
are followed by a grin.

"Woman... trader... you are most dangerous."

"You are the dangerous one."

"Not me.  Not now."

Ryalth brushes off his disclaimer.  "You worry about this majer?"

"I would not have him strike at you."

"No.  He will not strike at me.  His lancer honor is too precious for
that.  Were he a mer chanter now..."

They laugh again, together.

CI

Lorn paces back and forth in the dwelling's main chamber, trying not to
let the Brystan sabre bang into anything.  He supposes he should have
worn the lancer weapon, but he feels more comfortable with the older
weapon, and it feels somehow right.

He glances toward the bedchamber where Ryalth is fastening a scarf over
hair that she has laboriously curled, pinned, and braided.  She wears a
formal blue tunic with loose flowing blue shimmer cloth trousers.  Then
comes a blue woolen cloak, with a narrow cream and green border, before
she studies herself in a hand-mirror.

"Are you ready for me to get the mounts?"  he asks.

"Are you worried?"  Ryalth glances at Lorn, wearing his formal Lancer
cream uniform with the green and white piping.  "You keep walking back
and forth."

"No.  I just feel useless at the moment."

The redhead turns and studies him.  "You're going to make sure that
everyone knows you're a lancer."  She grins.  "So much for a quiet
consorting."

"Everyone in Jakaafra would know no matter what I wore," he points out.
"Besides, they'll all be looking at you, not at me."

"Go get the mounts."

He bows with a smile.  "As you command, my lady."

"Go."  Both her mouth and eyes return the smile.

The clear mid-morning remains chill, but the breeze out of the
northeast is light, sometimes even dying away, as Lorn leads both
mounts from the small stable to the door.  He had saddled them before
he had washed and dressed.  A carriage might have been more
appropriate, but he knows of none for hire in Jakaafra.

He waits for a time longer before the door, holding the reins of the
two mounts, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, and
wondering what other preparations Ryalth makes behind the privacy
screen.  He is almost ready to tie the horses to the hedge and go back
inside when Ryalth steps out and latches the door behind her.

"You see?  I wasn't long."  She glances at his face.  "Not too long,
anyway."

"You're even more lovely than usual."  Lorn offers a hand as she
mounts.

"I should get consorted more often."

"I'm sorry it wasn't earlier."  Lorn mounts easily.

They ride slowly toward the square and the center of town.  As they
pass one of the larger dwellings-on the north side of the road, two
women standing outside the green ceramic privacy screen watch closely
without speaking.  Once Lorn and Ryalth have passed, the women's voices
drift toward them on the barely perceptible breeze.  "there!  Looks
like a consorting... ever I saw one...."  "...captain, all right,
handsome as he is, but who be the lady?"

"That's shimmer cloth and the cloak-that says there's lancer and Magi'i
blood in the union.  Don't see that often, not here."

"Love match... I tell you... no other reason it'd be here."

Lorn smiles and leans toward Ryalth.  "It is a love match, you know?"

"I know.  I've known that for years.  It took you a while."

He shrugs expansively, but the wide smile remains on his face.

The recording building lies on the west side of the small town square,
around the corner and a good two hundred cubits from the side lane that
holds Dustyn's establishment.

The square has more people on the porches around the square.  A good
half-score watch from the wide porch of the cooper's, and half that
from the weaver's adjoining building.

"I've never seen so many people here," Lorn says quietly.

"Dear..."  Ryalth laughs.  "They don't get to see this often."

"A consorting?  It happens all the time."

"There are many lancers, and few lancer officers," she points out.

"You're the one," he counters.  "There are but a handful of trading
houses, and none so large headed by a woman."  Still, Ryalth's words
nag at him.  Despite his mother's words, he has never considered, not
fully, how few lancer officers and Magi'i there truly are in Cyador. He
pushes that thought away as he looks at the far side of the square.

Dustyn stands on the stone walkway to the right of the steps up to the
yellow brick recording building.  He wears a rich brown cloak, trimmed
in blue, over brown trousers and a good blue tunic.  Beside him is a
silver-haired woman who smiles broadly as Lorn and Ryalth ride toward
her.  Alongside the factor and his consort stand an enumerator in
blue-Eileyt, Lorn assumes-and a guard wearing mer chanter blue.

Eileyt's gray eyes take in Lorn.  Lorn smiles politely.  The slender
enumerator bows, a bow of respect.

Ryalth dismounts gracefully, barely placing any weight on the hand that
Lorn offers.  The guard steps forward to take the reins of both
mounts.

"Greetings, Captain, and my best wishes to you, Lady Merchanter."
Dustyn inclines his head first to Lorn and then to Ryalth.  "This be my
consort Wryul."  The spirit factor gestures to the silver-haired
woman.

"Thank you."  Lorn nods, as does Ryalth.

"You look lovely," Wryul addresses Ryalth.  "And to come so far..."

"We would have had to wait years for Lorn to return to Cyad," Ryalth
explains.  "I'm very happy to be here."

As the couple turns toward the steps of the small building, a closed
carriage of polished golden oak and drawn by a pair of matched grays
approaches from the eastern end of the avenue and enters the square.

"That be Kylynzar, I do believe," exclaims Dustyn as the coach draws to
a halt and as a wiry white-haired man in a maroon cloak steps out.  The
white-haired man turns and offers his hand to a gray-haired woman in a
matching maroon cloak.

"A quiet consorting?"  Ryalth murmurs under her breath.  "I told no one
except the ones I had to," Lorn murmurs back.  "Then why is half the
town here?"

"It's not half...."  Lorn protests.

"It is if you look behind us around the square."  Ryalth touches his
hand to call his attention to the two who have arrived in the coach.

"Captain, Lady," offers the man in the maroon cloak, "with your
decision to honor Jakaafra in your place of consorting, we could do no
less than to honor you."  A wry smile follows the words.  "We have not
met.  We have corresponded.  I am Kylynzar, and this is my consort
Mylora."  Lorn and Ryalth incline their heads.  "We are pleased to meet
you," Lorn says.  "Not so pleased as are we."

Dustyn clears his throat.  "Ah... scr... lady.  Wasyk be waiting for
you."  Ryalth lifts her eyebrows.  Lorn finds an embarrassed grin on
his face.  They walk up the two stone steps to the open double doors of
white oak, then step inside.

The recording hall is but fifteen cubits deep and half that in width.

The floor is over-polished white marble.  Four tall windows-two on each
side-provide the illumination.  The panes are glazed with ancient,
blue-tinged glass.  The hall is empty of all furnishings except for a
single white sunstone pedestal.

A heavy-set figure stands behind the open book that rests on the stand
of white sunstone.  Each page of the book is a cubit in height and two
thirds that in width.  The man wears a sash-like white shimmer cloth
scarf wide enough almost to conceal his brown tunic, despite his
bulk.

"I am Wasyk, the recorder of con sortings  Approach... you who wish to
record your consortship here in the town of Jakaafra."  The recorder
inclines his head to the couple.

Lorn and Ryalth walk slowly toward the book and sash-wearer.

Only Dustyn and Wryul and Kylynzer and Mylora have followed the couple
into the building, and the four of them stand at the back, just inside
the doors.

Lorn and Ryalth stand two cubits back from the sunstone pedestal and
the book upon it.  Both look to the recorder.

"Do you two-Captain Lorn of the Mirror Lancers and Lady Ryalth of
Ryalor House-declare your intention to take each other as consorts?"

"I do," Lorn replies.

"I do."  Ryalth's words are as firm as Lorn's, if more melodic.

"Would you each inscribe your name in the book before you, signifying
that such is your choice of your own free will, in the prosperity of
chaos and light and under the oversight of the Emperor of Light?" Wasyk
extends a shimmering white pen.

Ryalth takes the cupridium-tipped pen and writes her name.  She passes
it to Lorn, who in turn, writes his name.

Wasyk takes the pen and replaces it in the ceremonial cupridium holder,
then clears his throat before declaiming, "As entered in the book of
Jakaafra, you are hereafter consorts."  Wasyk beams at the couple. "May
you always be fulfilled in the light and in the fullness of time."

Lorn slips the shiny silver onto the pages of the book, as Dustyn had
told him.  He stands there for a long moment.

"You could kiss me," Ryalth murmurs.

Lorn does.

He can hear a gentle sigh from the back of the small building.

"Such a lovely couple..."

Arm in arm, the newly consorted pair walks toward the door.

Kylynzar steps up, coughs gently, and speaks.  "It be forward, we know,
but Dustyn and Wryul and Mylora and me, we'd like you to come to the
Brick Hearth.  Our treat, if you would.  It not be that often that a
consorting such as yours happens in Jakaafra."

How can they refuse?

"We would be more than happy to join you," Ryalth says brightly.  "Our
families are far from here, and your hospitality is most welcome."

"Most welcome," Lorn adds.

"It has been three generations since a lancer officer has lived in
Jakaafra, leastwise with his consort, if only part of the time," says
the gray-haired Mylora.

"We'll be here when we can," Lorn says, recalling his mother's words
just before he had left Cyad-her observation that lancer officers were
almost as exalted and rare as the Magi'i outside of Cyad.

When they step inside the Brick Hearth Inn, propelled forward by Dustyn
and Kylynzar, Lorn's mouth drops open.  The public room has been
cleared, and a table set against the side wall.  On the green linen of
the table are platters heaped with slices of melons, wedges of cheeses,
and baskets of bread.  At the left end of the table are a score of
bottles of amber wine.

Kylynzar and Dustyn both laugh.

"Little enough we can do," Kylynzar says.  "If you'd not mind, we did
ask a few other folk to join us."

"Of course."  Lorn hopes his voice does not betray too much surprise.

Kylynzar gestures, and within moments near-on a score of others have
flocked into the public room, all dressed in their best.  Lorn
recognizes only one couple-the ostler from the compound-Suforis-and his
consort Lesyna.  Both wear cloaks of brownish red.  Suforis smiles
broadly as his eyes meet Lorn's.

To the right of Suforis is Eileyt, and he smiles as well.

"Quiet consorting?"  Ryalth murmurs.

"I had no idea...."  He whispers back.

"I can tell.  You look like a stunned bullock."

"One moment!"  bellows Dustyn.  "Kylynzar's better with words 'n me,
and he's got a few."

The hubbub dies away.

"Just a few," announces the grower.  "Most of you know I never was too
fond of lancer officers, and outside of Dustyn, not passing fond of
factors, either.  These two are different, and I wanted to let them
know that the real folk of Cyador are most glad of it.  Now, let 'em
have a first bite, and then join in."

Still flushing, Lorn edges toward the table.

Dustyn extends two mugs in which he has poured the ruddy yet amber
vintage.  "You haven't tried the like of this."

Lorn grins and accepts the mug, as does Ryalth.

Lorn tries a wedge of the white cheese, and sips some of the amber wine
as he steps back from the table and turns to his redhead.  "This is
different, sweet and dry at the same time."

She takes one sip, then a second.  "It's strong."

Kylynzar approaches.  "That's my amber melon ice wine."  He glances at
Ryalth.  "Perhaps you might... Later, of course."  The wiry grower
flushes.  "I did not mean to talk of trade."

Ryalth laughs gently.  "It is good, and we will talk later."

"You are gracious, and you have dealt fairly, yet firmly."  Kylynzar
shakes his head.  "I will talk no more of trade."  He bows slightly to
Lorn.  "We have not seen exactly eye-to-eye, Captain, yet you have
lived up to your duty.  And my cousin, he has told me that you always
face the wild creatures first, and not last like so many officers."  He
laughs, "And your consort has done far better by us than all the other
factors of Cyador combined.  In fact, much of our decision to be here
and offer hospitality arises from her, and it is a pleasure to see that
she is as beautiful and charming as she is an effective mer chanter The
grower inclines his head to Ryalth again.

"She is beautiful and charming, and very effective," Lorn agrees.

Eileyt slips through the crowd and bows.  "Captain, my best wishes to
you."

"Thank you.  My gratitude to you for all the assistance you have
provided to Ryalth and Ryalor House."

Before either can say another word, a heavy-set man in a brown tunic so
dark it is almost black steps up.  Lorn recognizes Wasyk without his
shimmer cloth scarf.

"Never seen such a handsome couple," says the recorder.  "Really
created a dither here.  Hasn't been a lancer consorting or a me rage
consorting here in more than a score of years."

"We didn't know," Lorn admits, keeping his eyes on the big man, even as
he wonders how long the not-quite-impromptu festivities will
continue.

"You both from Cyad?"

"I grew up in Fyrad mostly," Ryalth explains, "until I was older."

"I was raised in Cyad," Lorn acknowledges.

"Won't talk long, but wanted to tell you both that folk'll remember
this day."  Wasyk raises his mug.

Lorn takes but a tiny sip, knowing he will have many sips yet to
come.

After taking a sip of her wine, Ryalth reaches out and squeezes Lorn's
hand, warmly.  "We'll remember it a long time, a very long time."

Lorn has no doubts about that.  And he'd thought it would be a quiet
consorting....

CII

Lorn stretches gingerly, yawning, his arm still around the redhead
sleeping beside him.  The mid-morning light seeps through the closed
shutters of the dwelling's bedchamber, thin slivers of light angling
toward the floor.  The air is chill, because they had gone to bed early
the night before and not stoked up the ceramic stove in the main
room.

Smiling reflectively, and looking at the peaceful and lightly freckled
face of his consort, Lorn still finds it hard to believe that the
festivities of their consorting two days earlier had lasted most of the
day and into the evening.  He and Ryalth had finally slipped away near
sunset, to more than a few knowing looks.  The day after the ceremony
they had spent quietly-the first day Lorn can remember in years where
he or Ryalth had not had to rise early for some reason or another.

"Mmmmm."  Ryalth nuzzles up to his cheek and kisses him gently.

"Mmmm to you, too, sleepy-head."

She yawns quietly, then snuggles against him.  "You don't know how good
it feels to sleep in the morning."

"I was just thinking that."

"But you woke up...."

"It is mid-morning," Lorn points out.

"It's still cold."  She shivers and pulls the worn quilt up to her ear
sone-handed.

"I'll start the fire in the stove."

"Mmmmm... if you don't mind... too much?"

He grins at the mock-plaintive note in her voice.  "I'll start it and
then come back until it's wanner."

The stone floor-the part not covered by the few braided rugs-is indeed
cold to Lorn's bare feet.  He pads into the main chamber where he sorts
out some of the thin strips of wood in the starter basket, and then
piles some of the larger pieces above it in the firebox.  Then he
concentrates.

Hst!  The tiny chaos bolt is sufficient to create a small blaze within
the stove.

Lorn smiles and walks back to the bedchamber, where he slips under the
covers again.

"Your feet are cold."

"I did get the fire started in the stove."

"Good."  Ryalth kisses his cheek, then pauses, before asking, "Have you
ridden around Jakaafra much?"

"Except for the ward-wall?  No.  When you're on duty most of the
time... well... the only riding I really did was to Jakaafra to deal
with Dustyn and to arrange for the consorting and dwelling."

"You should.  Now that you're consorted, you can wear that uniform when
you ride with me."

"I hadn't thought of wearing anything else."

"You hadn't thought of wearing anything at all today, you lecherous
consort," Ryalth teases.

Lorn flushes.  "We've never had days like this together before, and
they won't last that long."

"I know."  She sighs softly and hugs him, then kisses his cheek again.
"I hoped for this for a long time.  I didn't think it was possible."

"Lancers consort with mer chanters

"But Magi'i don't, and you were a student magus."

"I still would have."

"The way you are now, you would," she admits.

"I don't think I could have been otherwise."  His arms encircle her,
and they kiss, a long and lingering kiss.

They both stiffen as they sense the chill of a chaos glass screeing
them, and they hold to each other, barely breathing, until the scrutiny
ends, and the chill fades away.

"Whoever... has no decency."  Ryalth snorts, leaning back just
slightly.

Lorn wonders if his small use of chaos drew Maran, for it could be no
other, or if the majer is merely curious about Lorn's furlough.

"I didn't feel that yesterday or at the consort signing... did you?"
she asks.

"No."

"Then he must think you've enticed your mistress to Jakaafra.  I hope
he gets very jealous.  Very jealous."

"He might be."

"It's getting warmer," she says.  "What did you do?  Stoves don't heat
up that quickly."

"A trick I learned as a student," Lorn admits.

"Be careful who sees that."  She frowns.

"I am.  You're the only one who knows."

A trace of another frown crosses her brow before she speaks.  "Best it
remain that way, my very dear lancer."  She half sits up, pulling the
coverlet around her.  "You didn't read me a poem.  One from the book.
You brought it, didn't you?  You know it was really my first present to
you?"

He smiles, thankful he can.  "It's in my bag.  You want me to read one
now?"

"One... we're waiting for the stove to warm things up."

Lorn eases out of the bed a second time, extracts the silver-covered
volume from bag, and then extends it to her.  "You read one.  Your
favorite."  He slips back under the covers.

"Tonight, you have to read me one."

"I will."

She leafs through the book, then stops, nodding.  After a moment she
reads.

Like a dusk without a cloud, a leaf without a tree, a shell without a
sea... the greening of the pear slips by... Lorn smiles gently to
himself as she finishes the verses.  and wait for pears and praise and
wait for pears and praise.

"I like that one, too," he says, leaning next to her and kissing her
cheek.  After a moment, he takes the book and gently closes the
cover.

Her fingertips hold him at bay.  "You promised we could take a ride."

"Do you really want to ride around Jakaafra?"

Ryalth nods.  "People should see us, and the air will feel good."

"And?"

"I might get some more ideas.  I think I know where I can sell that
amber melon ice wine, if it will travel."

"Always the trader?"

"Not always."  She kisses his cheek again.  "Not always."

CIII

Lorn cocks his head to the side, then looks down at the draft of the
scroll he writes on the table that serves for eating and writing and
anything else in the small dwelling.  He glances toward the glassed
panes of the window whose inner shutters he has opened to get more
light.  Outside the warmth of the dwelling, a light but cold wind blows
through a gray mid-morning.  When he had saddled both mounts earlier,
Lorn had been glad for his winter jacket.  From the table, warmed by
the ceramic stove, he studies the sky once more.  The clouds are high,
and still do not look to bring rain or snow, or not soon.

He dips the pen again and adds a sentence to the draft of the scroll
before him, then pauses before crossing out several words and penning
in changes to the side.

"You are busy this morning," Ryalth observes as she emerges from the
bedchamber, wearing working mer chanter blues.  She walks over to Lorn,
and bends down and kisses the back of his neck.

"Are you ready?"  he asks, replacing the pen in its holder and looking
up at her.

"As ready as you, my dear lancer."  She smiles warmly.  "You do not
mind accompanying me on mer chanter business?"

"Not at all."

"Even after yesterday?"

Lorn laughs.  They had ridden nearly ten kays to a hamlet where a smith
supposedly forged unique iron implements, only to find that their
uniqueness was only in their size and crudeness.  Then they had talked
to a pear apple grower whose fruit was renowned in the region, but
Ryalth had decided even from the dried and winter stored samples that
the fruit would remain a local delicacy because it bruised too easily.
Most of the day had been like that.

"It is just that I seldom get this far east and north...."  She shakes
her head.  "I would never get this far were it not for you."  She sets
a blue leather wallet on the edge of the table, and there is the dull
clink of coins.  While Lorn has seen it before, he had never looked
that closely, thinking it a trader's wallet, and little more.  This
time, he sees, embossed on the leather, a green emblem-the intertwined
letters "R" and "L" set within an inverted triangle.

Lorn studies the emblem, his lips curling into a smile.

"That's the symbol I've been using from the beginning," she explains.

"You never showed me."

"You never asked."

Lorn shakes his head.  "I can't ask what I don't know about."

"Neither can I."  She laughs.  "Someone I love taught me that a long
time ago."

They both laugh.

"What do you think of this?"  Lorn hands her the scroll he has written.
He stands and looks over Ryalth's shoulder as she reads through his
revised and crossed out words.  Father had written some time back that,
after discussing possible consorts with Jerial, he had decided that the
lady I have spent so much time with over the years is most suitable.
Because that was also my inclination, and because she is my love, and
because it appears likely that I will not be returned to Cyad at any
time in the years immediately before me, she traveled to Jakaafra,
where we were consorted.

I know this was not exactly as we all had hoped for the placement and
timing of such an event, but you all know how unwise making such a
union public in Cyad would be at this time.  Mother has also told me
that she views the lady as most lovely.... Ryalth looks up.  "You
didn't tell me that."

"I didn't?  I thought I did."

She shakes her head ruefully.  "Lorn... my dearest lancer, there are
times when I can almost see that there are thoughts running through
your mind, and you look as though you ought to be talking, and I think
you are hearing all the words you would speak.  Then, I think you
sometimes feel you have spoken them."

"I will try to be better with you," he says slowly.  "Do not fret about
it.  That is the way you are."

"Sometimes I dwell in my thoughts and words too much."  He glances from
the redhead to the scroll.  "What do you think?"

"Do you think they'll be too terribly upset?"

"I don't think so.  Did you know that mother told me not to spend too
much time with them when I was in Cyad?  She said to spend it with 'my
friend.""

"I hope they won't be too upset."

"They won't be.  They want us to be happy."

"People say that," she points out, "until someone else's happiness
upsets them.  I still worry about upsetting your parents."

"If you'd rather I not tell them...."

"You have to... I understand that.  All may be as you say.  But I
worry.  So do you, or you would not take such care in drafting your
scroll."  The redhead looks toward the door.  "It's colder out, isn't
it?"

Lorn nods.

"It won't get warmer while we wait."

He smiles as he takes the draft scroll from her and sets it on the
table.  Then he takes the sabre from where he has set it in the corner
and attaches the scabbard to his uniform belt.  Then he dons the white
leather winter jacket and his winter riding gloves.

Ryalth wears a wool-lined blue leather vest over her tunic, and then a
heavy dark blue woolen cloak.  Her gloves are also dark blue.

"I've already saddled them."

They walk the fifty cubits to the stable together.  Lorn leads out the
chestnut first, then the white gelding, closing the stable door and
then mounting.

The raw and damp wind blows in their face out of the northwest as they
ride toward the square, and the smells that had hinted at coming spring
in the days immediately after their consorting have vanished with the
return of winter.  Neither speaks as their mounts carry them the kay
into the center of Jakaafra.

Eileyt and Usylt, the trade guard, are standing under the narrow porch
of Dustyn's establishment as Lorn and Ryalth ride down the lane from
the square.  As Lorn and Ryalth rein up, the two men hurry down from
the porch to untie their horses and mount.

"We're only going across the square," Ryalth says, "to the cuprite
master's shop."

The shop is on the south side of the square, close to two hundred
cubits from the recording hall, and distinguished by a small square
sign fastened to the eaves of the overhanging front porch.  The sign
shows a yellow lamp, and the porch is empty.  Lorn dismounts and ties
the gelding to the short hitching rail at the very end, then offers a
hand to Ryalth.

She smiles as she takes it.  "I'll have to get used to doing without
all this courtesy before long."

"Enjoy it while we can."

After she dismounts, Ryalth unfastens the blue leather Ryalor House
wallet and extends it to Eileyt.  She nods to Lorn.  "It's custom in
the smaller towns.  If you have an enumerator, then he should disburse
and collect the coins."

"I'll watch the mounts," Usylt says, more to affirm that he wishes to
remain outside, Lorn suspects.

"Thank you," Ryalth replies.

Lorn hurries up the three wooden steps and crosses the wide porch from
which many had watched their consorting nearly an eight day earlier. 
He wonders at how quickly the time has passed for them and how soon he
must return to duty and Ryalth must return to Cyad.  He cannot help but
worry that her absence will not help her trading.  With those thoughts
on his mind, he opens the door for Ryalth, then morions for Eileyt to
enter as well.

The enumerator shakes his head and stands back to let Lorn follow
Ryalth.

Inside, Ryalth steps forward to study the items on a small table which
include several ornate lamps, a kettle, and a lamp that looks more like
a storm lantern of some sort.  Ryalth studies the storm lantern.

The odor of hot metal permeates the shop.  In the rear are a small
forge, two workbenches, and a rack containing tools Lorn does not
recognize.  A man appears to be heating something in or over the forge,
but his back is to Lorn, and a youth pumps a bellows, sweat streaming
down his forehead.  The young man's eyes widen as he sees Ryalth, and
he says something to the crafter.

The crafter turns.  He is a squarish man, short, not even to Lorn's
chin, but muscular, with stubby fingers that set aside what appears to
be an ornate bronze vessel.  He steps toward the three figures at the
front of his shop.  "Lady Trader... Captain... I be Ghylset."  The
crafter's eyes flick from Ryalth to Lorn and back to Ryalth.  "What
might I do for you?"

"You show good work, master crafter," Ryalth offers.  "Better than many
I have seen, even in Cyad and Fyrad."

"Thank you."  The hint of a frown accompanies his words.  "Do you seek
something?"

"I seek good work."  Ryalth half-turns and gestures at the table and
the objects upon it.  "Which of these might show such?"

"The one you be looking at, Lady."

Ryalth studies the bronze lamp carefully.

"Begging yer pardon, Lady Trader... but if you'll be looking at the way
the mantel's set... that's the secret... that lamp... really more a
lantern but small enough to carry by mount or ship or set on a
carriage, and it will burn through a gale and the heaviest of rains."

Lorn can sense the truth of the crafter's words, and he knows Ryalth
can as well.

"Could not another cuprite master copy this?"  questions the redhead.

"Well... supposing they could, but it'd take someone good as me, and
I've figured some ways to make the seals with the glass tighter 'n
most, and quicker to form."  Ghylset shrugs.  "At five silvers a lamp
for a lamp that'll burn in the worst of storms.... I don't think
there's none can match me for quality nor price."

"Four silvers apiece if I order in lots of a half-score," Ryalth
suggests flatly.

"Half-score?"

"Can you make a score of them by the turn of spring?"  Ryalth asks.  "A
score... mayhap more."  The crafter frowns.  "But four... that is
low."

"Nine golds for a score," Ryalth says firmly.  "If they sell, I will
order more."

"Nine golds... aye... that be not too burdensome.  Yet... I cannot
begin so many... not without some estimation of faith... beggin' yer
pardon, Lady Trader."

While Ryalth and the cuprite crafter talk, Lorn studies another series
of lamps set on the shelf against the outer wall, taking in those of
various sizes.  He smiles as he sees one that is smaller than his
clenched fist, wondering as he does what use such a lamp might have.
"three golds now... so you may begin... and two more-Dustyn will
deliver them-when you bring the lamps to him to be shipped to me.  I
will send four more golds when I receive the lamps."

"They say you have been most fair...."  Ghylset nods slowly.

Ryalth looks to Eileyt, who produces three golds from the Ryalor House
wallet he carries for her.

"I look forward to your lamps, master crafter."  Ryalth's smile is
professional, yet with the suggestion of warmth.

"They be the best."

Lorn nods to himself as he follows her from the shop.  Because she can
assess both worth and character, Ryalth has a definite advantage, and
she offers enough warmth so that she does not have to haggle
endlessly.

"Which crafter do you wish to see next?"  Lorn asks as they step out
onto the windswept porch.

"No crafter-an oil seed grower."  Ryalth adjusts her cloak.

"The one with the perfumed oils?"

"There's always a market for good oils, and if they're different..."
She shrugs, then mounts her chestnut.

"Dustyn says his place is a solid four kays out the west road," Lorn
says as he quickly mounts.  "I hope this works out better than the pear
apple grower."

"Most don't," Ryalth cautions him, turning her mount toward the
recording hall.  "You should know that by now.  That's why I visit so
many."

"I know."  Lorn guides the gelding alongside her chestnut.

Behind them, Eileyt nods as he and Usylt ride after them toward the
west road from the square.

CIV

In the clear gray light preceding dawn, Lorn and Ryalth ride side by
side on the perimeter road to the southwest, toward Fyrad and Cyad, and
away from Jakaafra.  Behind them ride Eileyt and the Usylt, the
guard.

The air is still, and frost has settled on the dead land and on the
winter-gray trees to their right, well out beyond the dead land  Lorn
wears his winter jacket over his duty uniform, as well as the winter
garrison cap.  Ryalth wears her vest under the heavy blue woolen cloak.
Faint puffs of steam indicate their breathing.

Lorn glances to his left, at the glow of the sun about to rise from
behind the ward-wall and the Accursed Forest.  Somehow, the days of
Lorn's furlough have raced by until none are left, and he and Ryalth
must return to their duties.

"You have the scrolls?"  he looks at Ryalth, taking in the red hair,
the light freckles and the deep blue eyes he will miss more than he had
ever thought.  "And you will send them by private messenger?"

"We agreed on that."  Her lips curl into a smile that is both ironic
and resigned, yet warm and accepting.

He laughs once, gently.  "You will take care on the ride to the Great
Canal?"

"We will, and I will send you a scroll when I reach Cyad."  She smiles
softly.  "You need to get back.  I would not have you fail to be where
you must be."

Lorn reaches out and takes her gloved hand in his as they ride side by
side.  "I dislike parting, especially now."

"I will visit as I can," she promises.  "But you need to go."  Lorn
nods.  "Take care."  He gives her hand a last squeeze, then releases
it.

"I will."  Her smile is sad.

Lorn eases the gelding to the edge of the road, where he watches as the
three ride southwest.  Ryalth looks back several times.  Finally, he
turns the gelding and starts back toward the compound.  He has not
ridden two hundred cubits when he looks back over his shoulder.  Ryalth
is looking at him, as well, and he raises his arm.  After a time, they
both look away.

Lorn continues slowly back along the perimeter road, and the orangish
light of dawn floods up from behind the ward-wall and the green canopy
of the Accursed Forest.  He studies the unseen darkness that is all too
real, and wonders how the coming Patrol will fare.

Shortly, he eases the white gelding past the duty guards and through
the compound gates, his eyes checking the courtyard, noting that both
Kusyl and Shynt have begun to muster their squads outside the quarters
building.

He dismounts outside the stable and leads the gelding inside.  Suforis
hurries up.  "Scr, you'd not be going on Patrol today?"

"Tomorrow.  That's soon enough."  Lorn extends his mount's reins to the
blond ostler, then unfastens his gear from behind the saddle.

"She be a lovely lady, scr," Suforis observes, as he takes the
gelding's reins from Lorn.  "Though I was surprised that Dustyn asked
me 'n Lesyna to the festivities."

"We were glad you were there."  Lorn laughs, almost ruefully.  "You two
and Dustyn were the only people I really knew."  He shifts his grip on
his gear, then nods to Suforis.  "I'd best be getting where I should
be."

"Yes, scr."

Lorn walks briskly to the quarters building, stopping but long enough
to drop his gear bag in his duty quarters, and then returns to the
courtyard to see Kusyl, waiting before the formed up second squad.

"Scr."  Kusyl bows as Lorn approaches.

"Squad leader."

"Halfscore and four, scr.  One missing, scr."

"Very good, Kusyl.  You may dismiss them to their duties.  We will
inspect all blades and gear before the noon meal.  Once they are
working on their gear, I'd like to meet in the outer study."

"Yes, scr."

Lorn nods and heads to the first squad.

"Scr, half score and five, serA ll present," Shynt announces.

"Very good, squad leader.  You may dismiss them to their duties.  We
will inspect all blades and gear before the noon meal.  Kusyl and you
and I will meet in the outer study once they're working on their blades
and gear."

"Yes, scr."

Lorn turns and heads for the study, hoping that there are no scrolls or
messages bearing ill news.  There, the door has been unlocked,
doubtless by Kusyl, but the outer desk is bare.  He opens the door to
the inner study, but his desk is equally bare.

For some reason, that disturbs him more, he feels, than would have
scathing scrolls from either Majer Maran or Commander Meylyd.  Slowly,
he takes off his garrison cap and hangs it on one of the wall pegs,
then dolls the winter jacket.

Tomorrow, Second Company will resume its patrols, and Lorn has few
doubts that the struggles with the Accursed Forest will continue.

CV

The Emperor leans forward in the malachite and silver chair that
dominates the smaller audience hall.  His eyes are hard as he fixes
them upon the First Magus.  "If you would, most honored of Magi'i,
explain just how you plan to make this barrier work, and how long the
process will take."

Chyenfel bows.  "But, of course, Your Mightiness.  All know that there
are chaos towers that confine the Accursed Forest.  As you have been
informed, of the dozen towers that once enfolded the Forest, three have
failed.  Two of those were at the cardinal points of the wall.  Where
once every tower station at the cardinal points had two functioning
towers, now only the south and west stations have two towers.  The
other failed chaos tower is the northeast midpoint tower, and that has
meant forcing more chaos energy through the cupridium cables on the
northeast ward-wall.  That requires more chaos energies precisely from
the cardinal point tower stations most burdened.  Thus..."  the First
Magus shrugs, "the barrier on that wall is not so strong as on the
other walls, and there have been more attempts by the Accursed Forest
to break through the wards there."

In the far more modest malachite chair behind the Emperor's shoulder,
Ryenyel sits, her eyes not upon the First Magus nor upon the
Majer-Commander of Mirror Lancers, but, once again, upon Bluoyal, the
Merchanter Advisor to the Emperor of Light.

"We will use the remaining power in the towers to create a barrier,"
Chyenfel continues, "a barrier like that which separates the inner part
of a tower from the outer, and that barrier will also place a
slumber-ward, if you will, over all of the Accursed Forest.  We think
re-setting the chaos fields to do this will take a good two-score
mages.  It will take a season to assemble all that is necessary, and
but an afternoon to accomplish it."

"If it can be done," suggests the Emperor.

"So you should be able to move the towers by the fall if His Mightiness
agrees to this now?"  asks Bluoyal quietly.

All faces turn to the mer chanter advisor at his interruption.  To
Bluoyal's right, Rynst nods slightly, almost as if urging the mer
chanter to go on.

"We are seeing more pirate attacks upon our trading vessels," the heavy
trader continues.  "Yet we understand that we can expect less support
from the fireships and fewer Mirror Foot on our ships with fire lances
For generations, those chaos towers have sat around a forest that
hasn't caused a shade of the trouble that the barbarians or the pirates
have, all because the ancients thought there was something there.  So a
few wild creatures escape, and a few cattle and sheep are killed.  It
would be far cheaper to pay for the lost livestock, and move the
lancers and the towers to where they can do real good."

"If you may recall," offers Chyenfel, "no chaos tower can be moved,
unless it was placed in something that contains it and can be moved,
such as a fire ship The records and history are quite clear on that.
They are also quite clear on the dangers of the Forest."

"Has anyone tried to move them in, say, the past five generations?"
counters Bluoyal.

"Which one would you like to lose, honored mer chanter  If we try to
move one surrounding the Forest, we cannot contain the wild order, even
under the new barrier.  Why would we wish to move any of the others?"

"I was not thinking of the others, most honored First Magus."

"As we have told the Emperor before, although you may have missed such,
honored advisor on trade and commerce, the towers will still be there,
although none will be able to see or sense them."

"Not sense them?"  Bluoyal raises his bushy eyebrows.

"They and the wards will be twisted so that they will not quite be as
they are... or that they do not appear as such, more precisely."

The Emperor of Light frowns.  "If the towers... vanish... will this not
alarm the people?  You had not mentioned this aspect of your barrier.
What of the lancers?"

"We would see no need of the present numbers of lancers," answers
Chyenfel cautiously.

"So that they could be moved northward, or placed on the new
sail-powered warships?"  interjects Bluoyal.

"That would be the decision of His Mightiness, in consultation with the
honored Majer-Commander," replies the First Magus.

"A moment."  Toziel lifts his hand.  "Let me make this most clear.  You
are telling me that unless I agree to your plan, I will have no
choice?"

"Sire..."  Chyenfel offers patiently.  "You have no choice.  If you try
to move the towers, they will fail, and the Accursed Forest will
reclaim much of eastern Cyador.  If you do nothing, the towers will
fail within years, if not sooner, and the Forest will do the same."

Toziel looks at the perspiring magus.  "I cannot say that I am pleased
with the performance of the Magi'i."

"Sire... this day has been foretold from the very first.  You have read
the original writings of the Firstborn...."

"And I would be the man to be Emperor when it may occur?"  Toziel's
words are like cold cupridium.  "So... for how many more years will
your plan confine the Accursed Forest, so that Cyador may continue to
prosper?"

"Sire... as you know, we would use all the power in the Towers to
create a barrier, the slenderest barrier of time passing, and by doing
so, we would layer order and chaos about the Forest, and place the
Forest in a type of sleep, so that it would come to resemble a normal
forest...."

"You have told me that.  How long?"

"Twenty-five to thirty score years, we would judge-if... if, no one
brings a focused order or chaos of that same magnitude to the
ward-walls."

"How could that occur, if there is no other source of focused chaos or
order besides the chaos towers-which are failing-and the Forest which
you will lull into an enchanted sleep?"

"We know of no such way, sire."  Chyenfel bows.

"As you say... I have no choice.  Let it be done."  Toziel stands.  "We
will not visit this issue again."  He turns and moves toward the exit
from the chamber.

A smile flits across Bluoyal's face, a smile noted by Ryenyel alone
before she turns to follow her consort.

Rynst's cold eyes scan first Bluoyal and then the First Magus.  The
three advisors remain standing in place until the chamber is vacant of
imperial presence.

As is their custom after the audience with the advisors, the Emperor
and his consort return to the Empress's salon, where she seats herself
on the white divan.

Toziel studies his consort.  "I do believe we have finally had enough
meetings on the barrier for the Accursed Forest so that Chyenfel can
create it without interference."

"You could have ordered him to proceed a year ago," Ryenyel points out,
"were it not for other considerations."

"Folk-even high advisors-must talk and talk and repeat themselves until
they are confortable with an idea, for if they are not..."

"The delay is greater," Ryenyel finishes drily.

"And I must appear almost dense, as if forced into acceding to the
plan."  Toziel shakes his head.

Faint smiles appear on both their faces.

"And all the Magi'i had to understand that the towers there will
fail."

"You mean Kharl and Liataphi... perhaps Kien," she suggests.

"Kien understands.  He always has.  He prefers to advise, and stand in
the shadows.  That is why he will never seek to be First Magus.  Or
even Third."

"Many would not agree."

Toziel grins at her.  "But you do, and I trust your judgment."  The
grin fades, and he paces to the window.  There he looks out at the
heavy spring rain for a time before he turns and speaks again.  "Each
eight day we delay, we risk failure of another tower, and the chance
that the Accursed Forest will leap the wards beyond our ability to
contain it."

After a silence, the Empress-consort speaks.  "Rynst now understands
that Bluoyal only wishes the towers and the lancers in order to support
the mer chanters trading ships.  He also understands that while he
cannot brook Chyenfel, the First Magus can be trusted far more than the
Second.  Or the Third."

"Only now?"  Toziel snorts.  "Or is it that he fears Bluoyal more than
the Magi'i?"

"Bluoyal walks a narrow and dangerous path, trying to ensure that the
lancers and the Magi'i do not see that their interests are closer to
each other's than to his."  She reaches for the goblet of spring water
on the table, nearly draining it in a single swallow.

"They see that.  They have always seen that."  The Emperor's smile is
cold.  "But neither can afford to trust the other allied to Bluoyal.
Yet they know that both Magi'i and Lancers are few outside of the three
cities.  They cooperate like a pair of giant cats against a pack of
night leopards.  Most carefully."

"And when the towers fail?"  she questions.

"There will be towers after we are gone," Toziel answers.

"Not many, and not for long.  You hesitate to answer?"

"You know, as do I, my dear.  There will need to be more lancers
against the barbarians, but the Magi'i who can draw chaos from around
them will be far fewer."  He shrugs.  "That will make each more
powerful individually, but the families far less so, and there will be
fewer.  Bluoyal's successors will find they still need lancers, but not
until many perish, and more than a few vessels are lost."

"Little will change," she prophesies.

"The appearances will not, but the emperors to come must either be
powerful Magi'i or inspire loyalty within the Mirror Lancers, for
either lancers or Magi'i can destroy an Emperor.  Yet they must have
the support of the Merchanters, for without that there will not be the
golds to support the Mirror Lancers."

"Bluoyal is coming to believe that he can decide who will succeed you,
even now.  I wonder if he holds the Brystan sabre in reserve... or the
man who does."

"That part of the riddle has not surfaced."  Toziel sinks onto the
divan beside her, breathing slightly heavily.

"No," she replies, "but it will.  Bluoyal already believes that the mer
chanters will purchase the Palace of Light in years to come."

"For a season, perhaps, in two generations.  Sooner, if we fail, and
blood will stain the sunstone so deeply it will not be removed, should
that occur."  He studies her drawn face.  "You give too much to me."

"What else would I do, dearest?  We know there is no one else."

"Not yet."  Her fingers rest lightly on his cheek.

CVI

In the mid-afternoon gloom, Lorn sits at the narrow desk in his study,
reading over the last lines of his patrol report, before he begins the
summary report that will go to Majer Maran.  Outside, the heavy rain
that begun the day before on the final day of patrol continues to beat
down on the tile roofs of the compound and to run in sheets across the
slightly slanted stone pavement of the courtyard, pouring into the
drainage canal leading westward.

The lancer captain massages his forehead with his left hand, closing
his eyes for a moment, listening to the drumbeat of the rain, rain that
usually seems to provide headaches.

Ryalth has returned to Cyad, and Lorn has completed one complete
patrol, surprisingly without a tree-fall or another excursion from the
Accursed Forest.  Those will come.  That he knows, but he hopes that he
will have some time, for he has yet to decide how he will handle what
must come from Maran, if not by spring, then later.

Thrap.  The knock on the study door is gentle.

"Yes?"

Kusyl opens the door and peers inside.  "Ah... scr... the engineers
brought the replacement fire lances

Lorn beckons for the squad leader to come in.

Kusyl does and closes the door behind him.

"They're not fully charged, or there aren't enough?"  Lorn suggests.

"Just a score and a half, serIf Frynyl hadn't run for the north, well,
scr..."

"I know.  There wouldn't even be one for me.  I could have borrowed one
from Juist, but only one.  He generally has a few extras, and they
don't discharge theirs as rapidly as we do."  Lorn smiles.  "I
appreciate your telling me.  It won't change anything."  He glances
toward the window.  "I just hope the rain lets up soon."

"Not quite so heavy as earlier, scr."  Kusyl bobs his head.  "There be
anything you want, scr?"

"No, thank you."

Once Kusyl leaves, Lorn looks out at the still-falling rain.  He shakes
his head sadly.  Maran has made Lorn's decision for him, although Lorn
doubts Maran will understand the reasons for that decision.  The
captain fingers his chin.  In a way, Ciesrt has also helped to make
Lorn's decision, and his sister's consort would not understand
either.

Lorn takes out another sheet of report paper and begins drafting the
summary report to Majer Maran.  Since nothing occurred, it is short,
and before long, Lorn has handed it to Kusyl for dispatch.

Then he crosses the courtyard to his quarters quickly, but Kusyl is
right, for the rain has diminished to a fraction of its former
intensity.

He bolts the door behind himself, pacing around the small room,
thinking.  After a time, he recovers and opens the silver-covered book,
searching for a poem that may reflect his conflicting emotions, either
his sense of loss at Ryalth's absence... perhaps his growing
understanding of how fortunate he has been to have found and held her
or his anger at Maran's smallness.  He passes by page after page of
verse, feeling the weight of melancholy, until he pauses, caught by an
image, though it is not what he has sought.

He reads the words slowly, and aloud, for the combination of the subtle
strangeness and the angular characters always suggests restraint.

An ornamented garden, filled with flowers, statues surrounding lovers'
bowers, these we will not find in granite walls, nor in the heights of
Palace halls, vain images of a world long lost in space that none can
bear to view or to replace.

Love you I will these last days we hold, loving till we are ash and
order cold, for ancient images are not for keeping, nor Palace walls
and second falls for weeping.

He frowns, wondering again who the writer might have been.  Then he
shakes his head, looking for something slightly less melancholy, but
the best he can find is the first stanza of another verse.

Virtues of old hold fast.

Morning's blaze cannot last; and rose petals soon part.

Not so a steadfast heart.

"Not so a steadfast heart..."  he murmurs to himself.  Is his heart
that steadfast?  He shakes his head and turns to the lines about pears,
recalling Ryalth's voice as she had read the words on a chill morning
that had been warmer than most he has known.

Then, only then, he slowly closes the book.  Ryalth had asked him so
long ago what he knew of the ancients.  He still does not know, only
that they had somehow seen an age end, a life end, and it had colored
everything written in the small, seemingly eternal, silver-covered
volume he holds.

CVII

To Lorn's right the ward-wall glimmers white in the steam of the
morning of Second Company's second day of patrol-outbound from Jakaafra
compound on the second full patrol since Lorn has returned from his
furlough and seen Ryalth off on her way back to Cyad.  While it is too
early to have heard from her, he worries.

He also worries about the weather and the Accursed Forest.  The cold
rain has been followed with still air and a sun that seems as hot as
early summer.  The air is damp and warm, and steam rises from the road
and even from the dead land so much so that Lorn can barely make out
the second squad's lancers in the line abreast stretching in from the
perimeter road.

Lorn blots his forehead with the back of his hand, even though his
jacket is fastened behind the saddle.  His eyes and chaos senses focus
on the ward-wall ahead, for the chaos field set up by the wards is
truly chaotic and seems almost to fade away at times.  He turns his
head left and calls to Shynt, "Tell them to watch things closely."

"Aye, serIn turn, the junior squad leader calls out.  "Watch close now!
 Could be aught all in this mist!  Watch close."

As the gelding carries him along the wall road, headed almost directly
into the sun, Lorn struggles against the glare of sun and reflected
light to make out the midpoint chaos tower that the company must be
approaching-that and the fallen trunk he knows must lie ahead.  Still,
Second Company rides another three kays before Lorn sees the line of
darkness crossing the ward-wall ahead-and behind it, the white granite
of the midpoint chaos-tower building rising above the ground mist, less
than half a kay behind the fallen tree.  For a long moment, he studies
the point nearly a kay away where the tree has struck the granite of
the ward-wall, noting that white oblongs are strewn across the wall
road-the first time he has seen such.

He turns in the saddle and calls to Shynt, "Form up into five abreast.
We'll head out to join the second squad."  His fingers touch the single
chaos lance in his holder-fully charged and then some.

"There's a fallen tree ahead.  Form up five abreast, staggered!  Pass
it out!"  orders the junior squad leader.  "Five abreast!"

After guiding the gelding away from the ward-wall, Lorn urges his mount
up alongside Shynt's.  The lancers fall into their five-abreast ranks
as Lorn and Shynt pass, until they have gathered the understrength
squad together.  Shynt barely has the first squad formed up a quarter
kay from the wall and riding outward toward Kusyl and his second
squad-already formed up on the perimeter road-when a messenger rides
toward Lorn, reining up and then turning his mount to ride beside the
lancer captain.

"Scr," the messenger blurts.  "Squad leader Kusyl, scr, he wants you to
know that there's another trunk down on the far side of the chaos
tower."

"Another?"  murmurs Shynt to himself.

"Thank you," Lorn replies.  "Tell him we'll join him on the perimeter
road off the crown of this trunk.  And tell him to stay well back until
we get there."

"Yes, scr."

The lancer rides back toward Kusyl, and Lorn and the first squad
continue riding in formation, outward through the ground mist that has
begun to dissipate, out toward the perimeter road and the second
squad.

Lorn keeps studying the dark trunk whose length they parallel, but he
sees nothing overt, no giant cats on the trunk, no night leopards-just
a huge trunk-wall that seems blacker than most of the fallen forest
giants he has encountered on previous patrols.

As Lorn nears the second squad, formed up on the perimeter road, Kusyl
rides forward to meet his captain.  "Two of 'em down, scr," reports the
senior squad leader.  "You can see the second, on the other side of the
tower building."  He points.  "Looks big as this one.  Could be bigger.
Hard to tell from here."

Following the gesture, Lorn nods.  "Two or not, we'll have to check
this one first.  We'll follow the road and then head straight at the
crown."

"Yes, scr."

Lorn continues to watch the two fallen forest giants, separated by
almost a kay, with the bulk of the midpoint chaos tower and its
connecting wall between them, yet he can see nothing moving except dark
birds that are clearly vulcrows.

When they are opposite the first tree, Lorn reins up, then turns. "Form
up on me for the approach to the crown."  The captain looks from Kusyl
to Shynt.

"Yes, scr."

"Yes, scr."

Lorn eases the gelding forward, then slips the white fire lance from
the holder.  He also checks the sabre.  Once the squads flank him, with
seventy-five cubits separating him from the forward lancer on each
side, and he rides alone once more, he urges the gelding toward the
mass of twisted and splintered branches and greenery that lie six
hundred cubits before him.

A vulcrow flutters to land on a branch protruding higher than the
others, its black feathers glistening under the hot spring-like sun,
something dangling from its mouth before the morsel disappears when the
scavenger swallows.  Lorn rides closer to the forest canopy.  He can
see long strands of moss-like vegetation.

The air smells of splintered and resined wood, of acrid crushed leaves,
and slightly of the acrid and musky scent that tells of stun lizards.
The branches rustle, then crack ominously, and the crackling is
followed by a greater odor of musk and an intensified acridity.

"Prepare to discharge fire lances  Lorn orders without turning his
head, his eyes sweeping the twisted greenery.  "Firelances to the
ready."

The two stun lizards that crash from the fallen tree are five cubits
high at their front shoulders, and stretch more than twenty-five
cubits.  The heavy tails do not lash.  The nearer and fractionally
larger lizard halts, then watches Lorn through black eyes that do not
blink.  Soundlessly, a black tongue flicks out like a lash, pulling a
gray sparrow Lorn had not even seen from the air.

After taking the bird, the first lizard remains perfectly still.  So
does the second.

A gap of a hundred cubits separates Lorn and the two squads of Second
Company from the pair of lizards.

The first lizard lumbers forward a good twenty cubits, then halts.  The
tongue flicks the air once more.

Lorn waits.

The trailing lizard angles to Lorn's right and continues forward slowly
until it comes to a halt ten cubits forward of the first.

The first lizard takes another dozen ground-covering strides, then
lifts its head.

MMMMnnnnnnnn... At the mental scream of the lizard, several lancers
sway in their saddles.  One drops a fire lance and clasps his hands to
his forehead, as if to try to keep his skull from exploding.

"Discharge at will!"  snaps Lorn.

"Fire at will!"  echoes Kusyl.

MMMMnnn... The second lizard charges for Shynt.

Hssst!  Hsstt!  Hssst!  Firelances flare everywhere, but most
concentrate on the second lizard, the one that has almost reached the
five-abreast formation before slowing under the flash of lances.

MMMnnnnnn!  Lorn feels rocked in his saddle by the mental blast, even
though he knows the sensation is but within his mind.

The giant lizard half-turns and the tail swings.  A lancer tries to
duck, but is swept from the saddle, and the return swing, lower, sweeps
his mount from its hoofs.

Lorn digs his heels into the gelding's flanks and urges him forward.
Recalling his previous encounters with the lizards, he directs his
lance blasts at the first lizard's left eye.

Hssstt!

MMMMMmmmm... The stun blast contains a sense of pain and rage.
MMMnnnnn... The big tail thumps the dead land then lashes toward the
second squad.

Mmmnnnn... Lorn fires again, glancing toward the first squad
momentarily.  Two mounts are down, but the second lizard's head is a
charred mass.  He concentrates on the lizard that continues to lumber
away from him and toward Kusyl and the second squad.

The first lizard flees Lorn, its tail sweeping through the legs of
another lancer mount, and sending mount and lancer down.  Lorn urges
the gelding more to his left, trying to circle past the flailing tail
to get another blast at the lizard's eye.

Abruptly, the big creature slows and its tongue flashes toward a
lancer, but the lancer has the presence of mind to slash with his
sabre.

MMMMnnnn!

The lancer shakes his head, managing to hold his blade against the
lash-like tongue.

HHHssssTTT!  Lorn focuses a long bolt, one that curves under his
control, into the lizard's left eye.

A deep roaring groan fills the air, and the tail slams the ground,
once, twice.  Lorn senses that the beast is dying, and lets loose
another fire blast before he turns the gelding.  His eyes travel toward
the ward-wall, where, even as the two lizards are still twitching,
another set of four large dark forms come streaking, not from the
foliage, but down the massive tree trunk from the forest.

"Giant cats!  Reform!"

"Lances ready!"

Before the second squad can turn toward the south and the ward-wall,
one of the giant cats has struck a lancer.

Hhhsttt!  Hssst!

The bursts from the lances are shorter, weaker, and many lancers have
dropped exhausted lances and are using their sabres.

Lorn finds the Brystan sabre in one hand, and the fire lance in the
other.  His eyes are watering, and his head is splitting, but he lets
loose with another chaos blast, this time at a giant cat that has
started to spring toward Kusyl from the side, while the senior squad
leader is using his sabre on a third cat that has slashed the shoulder
of a lancer in the first rank.

The cat squalls, then crumples, and Lorn tries to scan the area between
the lancers and the crushed canopy.

A round tannish object rolls out of the canopy, surrounded almost by a
dark fog, that starts to swirl away from rough sphere.

Paper wasps!  Lorn turns his lance in the general direction of the nest
and lets loose a chaos bolt.  Hssst!

Knives slash his vision, and he understands he is drawing chaos from
around him, that the charge in his weapon is long since depleted.  He
drops the lance.  This is one time that he isn't worrying about the
weapons, not with all the wild creatures swirling around and attacking
Second Company.

He glances back at the tan sphere, but the wasp nest flares yellowish,
as do some of the finger-long wasps.  A handful escapes the chaos
flash, and the insects whine toward the nearest lancers-those on the
left end of Shynt's company.

Lorn jerks his attention back to the crushed green leaves of the
canopy, and the rustling that foretells night leopards.  "Night
leopards!"

"Frig!"

"Dark angels..."

Lorn manages to drag out the other sabre and wonders just how effective
he will be guiding the gelding with his knees.  He swallows and blinks
as the smaller cats continue to bound from the greenery-far more than a
score.

Hssst!  Hssst!  Hssst!  The handful of fire lances left from those
lancers who had been in the third rank flare, and lines of chaos
crisscross the dark feline forms, those that have not already reached
lancers and their mounts.

"Short bursts!  Short bursts!"  Shynt bellows.

A mount screams.

Lorn finds himself swinging the Brystan sabre left-handed to drop a
night leopard that has streaked toward him, while holding the second
sabre ready in his right.

Hsst!  Hsst!

Lorn does not recall well the next moments, only that he employs both
blades, and that no leopards turn and flee, but all continue to
attack.

Abruptly, impossibly, it seems, there are no creatures attacking.

Lorn glances down.  One trouser leg is slashed, and there is blood
splattered across his boots and legs.  His eyes feel like knives are
being driven through and behind them, and his skull feels as if it had
been split with a dull wedge.  He blinks and tries to assess what
remains around him.

Close by, he can see five mounts lying on the dead land  One shudders
and tries to rise, shudders and tries again, but the mare's right
foreleg is crushed and twisted, possibly from the lashing tail of one
of the stun lizards.

One lancer lies on his back, his body swollen, and his face covered
with red blotches from the attack of those paper wasps that had escaped
Lorn's fire lance

Other unmoving forms-five-lie beside the charred forms of the lizards,
the giant cats, and the night leopards.

Kusyl rides slowly toward Lorn.  Dark splotches cover his gray's coat,
blood is smeared across the forearms of both sleeves.

Not sure that the attack is over, or that the comparative stillness is
a lull, Lorn keeps scanning the area, with both chaos senses and sight.
The only sounds come from the lancers and their mounts, and the pitiful
whimpering of the mount that will have to be destroyed.

A vulcrow flaps overhead, then glides above Lorn and down toward one of
the lizard carcasses.  Lorn blots his forehead to keep the sweat from
eyes that already burn and slash into his skull, but he does not close
his eyes, but keeps watching.

"Form up on me!"  Kusyl orders.

"Reform!"  yells Shynt, his voice cracking slightly.

Lorn watches the greenery as the lancers reform, those that remain and
can, then rides to where Kusyl sits on his mount before the remaining
eleven members of the second squad.

"Never... ever seen aught like that, scr," observes the squad leader.

Lorn shakes his head, but only minutely, for each movement sears his
vision.  "I haven't either."  He swallows, but that helps little with
the dryness in his mouth and throat.  "Best we remain formed up and see
what happens for a bit.  Except... have a couple of men look to the
wounded... do we have any?"

"Yes, scr."  Kusyl frowns.  "Seven down, I think, both squads.  Those
that stayed mounted be all right, save slashes... excepting Thylt...
lizard tail snapped his arm."

Shynt eases his mount to join them, as all three continue to survey the
twisted branches of the fallen tree.  "We have no charged lances
remaining."

"I doubt if anyone does," Lorn says hoarsely.

The silence continues for some time, yet the only movement is that of
the handful of vulcrows that are gathering, flapping down to feed on
the dead lizards.

"There is a second tree," Lorn says.  "Have second squad remain here
with the wounded.  First squad and I will circle the other tree, but
we'll stay well back.  Well back," he adds.

Shynt nods.

"We won't send a message to the Engineers until we look at the second
tree-carefully."  The captain looks at Kusyl.  "If you'd have someone
collect the lances that were discarded or dropped, and see how many are
left with charges...."  He laughs once, harshly.  "If there are any at
all."

"Yes, scr."

Lorn turns in the saddle to Shynt.  "First squad ready?"

"Yes, scr."

Lorn and the first squad slowly ride past the midpoint chaos tower,
then continue almost another half kay before turning southward and
beginning a circuit around the second fallen trunk, at a distance of a
good five hundred cubits.  Lorn watches the trunk... and listens.  All
he hears are the murmurs of lancers.  "two stun lizards... never saw so
many of those angel-dead leopards..."  "...captain killed one lizard
himself... big cat... lots a' small ones..."  "better... got the worst
luck of any officer..."  "not worst luck... worst wall... northeast
always been bad... say it be the winds..."  "heard he got consorted on
furlough..."  "might as well... lots don't live to get back to
Cyad...."

Lorn concentrates on the fallen tree, but no branches rustle, and there
are no signs of any other wild creatures-besides the vulcrows that
perch on the trunk, and then fly back to pick at the carcasses.

"Not a thing on this trunk.  Strange it be," Shynt observes.  "They
were waiting for us at the first."

Lorn nods, his eyes going to the ward-wall that lies still ahead,
continuing to ride parallel to the second trunk, the fire lance held
out, even though the chaos charge is gone.  He compares the bark to
what he has seen earlier, a bark that is darker, smoother-harder
perhaps.

As they near the wall that hardness is clear.  Once again, the trunk
has also destroyed or knocked out of the wall a good three courses of
the granite stonework.

"Tough tree, this one," Shynt says.  "Hope we don't see more like
this."

More like what they have just endured, and there will be no Second
Company.  Yet not a single wild creature has escaped-unless they had
left well before the lancers arrived.  Lorn shrugs.  If that is the
case, he can do nothing, but accept that Maran will blame him for that
as well.

No matter how carefully Lorn writes his patrol report, Maran will find
a way to blame Lorn.

CVIII

After turning the gelding over to Suforis and ensuring that the fire
lances are locked in the armory, Lorn hurries back to his study,
stopping only to drop his gear, and reaching the Second Company studies
even before Kusyl-if Kusyl even intends to do so.  Lorn carries the
scroll passed to him by Suforis, who has informed Lorn that Lesyna has
actually brought it from Dustyn.  A second scroll waits in the outer
study, one from Cyad through the lancer courier system.  The one from
Cyad has been opened and resealed, if most carefully.

Once he is in his study, and has lit the lamp to lift the twilight
gloom, Lorn opens Ryalth's scroll first, smoothing it out gently.

My dearest,

I have returned safely.  It is most late tonight, but I will write now,
else I will have little time for eight days to come.  No... Ryalor
House did not suffer in my absence.  Having three enumerators and a
junior trader sufficed.  There are many opportunities, and some I see
clearly for the first time.... I already have a buyer for the lamps,
and an offer on the melon ice wine.... He skips over the rest of the
general references to trade opportunities, looking for her reaction or
his family's reaction to their consortship.

You had asked I send the scrolls.  I did, but I sent them with a scroll
of my own, requesting their leave to call.  Your sister Jerial appeared
at the Plaza herself and escorted me to the evening meal.  Your father
apologized for not coming personally, but he asked that I understand
his presence in the Plaza would have negated all we had done in our
arrangements.  They were not only kind, but far warmer than I would
have believed.  We will continue to be circumspect, and I have
officially engaged your sister as my personal healer.  That is rare,
but not unheard of.... Rare for a mer chanter but not for a Magi'i
family without healers, Lorn reflects.  Trust his consort and his
sister to immediately find a way to work matters out.  Eileyt is now a
senior enumerator, and pleased with that.  So am I.

Lorn nods.

If matters progress as well as may be possible, I may be able to return
to eastern Cyador to arrange future goods and shipments as early as
next fall.  That would please me no end, and I trust you, as well.

The words, "my love," are written above her signature.

Lorn smiles, looking at the last words.  Finally, he reaches for the
second scroll.  While he knows Ryalth reads people well, he still frets
as he breaks the seal and smooths out the heavy paper.

Your scroll arrived, accompanied by another, and I must say that you
surprised us, not so much for your choice or the location, but for the
timing.  Yet I must admit that this was not totally unexpected,
considering the situation in which you find yourself.  The lady asked
our permission to call, and Jerial escorted her to us, the best
arrangement possible.  I told her that while her courtesy was charming
and her discretion remarkable, that she was welcome at any time.  She
is indeed remarkable, and I must praise your ability to see far more
than either your mother or I would have... Lorn laughs to himself.
Those circumspect words were as close to a compliment of Ryalth and an
admission that his father had been wrong as he was ever likely to get.
Jerial is also pleased, although she has been hard-pressed lately as a
result of recent unfortunate incidents, such as occurred the last time
you visited.

Recent unfortunate incidents?

Myryan has also been pressed into service, and has had far less time
with her new dwelling and her garden than she would have wished, but
her skill is undeniable.  Vernt may well be considered for elevation to
a lower second level adept in the year or so ahead, so devoted he is to
his work.  Your mother and I have introduced him to several young
ladies, and, in light of recent events, he might even consider seeing
one of them.

Your mother and I are well, if not possessed of quite the vigor of our
offspring, and I am most pleased to be where I am at this time in my
life... Lorn frowns.  From what he can tell, there has been another
chaos-explosion, perhaps on a fire ship and a great deal of stress and
pressure has been placed on the highest level of the Magi'i.  The very
highest level, Lorn knows, for his father is just below the three who
lead the Magi'i.

The lancer captain looks at the locked foot locker on the far side of
his desk.  Tomorrow... tomorrow he will deal with the patrol report and
the other administrative duties.

Tonight, he is relieved.

Half-relieved, he corrects himself as he leaves the inner study.

CIX

Lorn is in his study early the next morning, working on the patrol
report.  Short as it is, he writes three versions, and it is well after
mid-morning before he is satisfied.  Then... he must plead for
replacement lancers in a scroll to commander Meylyd.  Drafting that
request is almost as laborious, but finally he finishes a draft.

He glances out the study window at the green-blue sky and the puffy
white clouds that drift out of the north, then looks back down at his
request, his eyes taking in what he has written.  as I had noted in a
previous meeting with Majer Maran, Second Company was well under
strength even before the extraordinary demands placed on it by the
excursions of the Accursed Forest... have managed to restrict the wild
creatures using the most conventional of Mirror Lancer tactics, and
without use of additional fire lances toll has been high, and both
squads now number less than half their normal strength... should the
most recent level of activity by the Accursed Forest continue, it would
appear unlikely that even the most esteemed and loyal Mirror Lancer
officer could continue to restrict the escape of wild creatures without
reinforcements.... Therefore... requesting replacements necessary to
bring Second Company up to full strength.... Lorn reads through the
draft.  He purses his lips.  The wording is still not right, and it
nears mid-day.

Thrap.

He looks up at the knock.  "Yes?"

Kusyl opens the door.  "There be a Majer Weylt here, scr."

"Have him come in."  Lorn stands.

Weylt enters the inner study, and Kusyl shuts the door.

"Majer, what can I do for you?"  asks Lorn.

"I wondered if we could have something to eat before I leave.  We were
checking the tower," Weylt explains.

"There's not much at mid-day," Lorn says.  "Usually just bread and
cheese, maybe some dried fruit."  He smiles.  "I can offer some
wine."

"I'd appreciate that."

"I can go now."  Lorn gestures toward the papers on the desk. "Reports,
but they can wait until after we eat."

"Thank you."

"If you would like, I'll meet you there.  I keep the wine in my
quarters," Lorn points out.

"That would be fine."

Lorn crosses the courtyard.  He notes that the Engineer fire wagon is
being loaded with several fire lances-those expended by Juist?

There is but one bottle of Alafraan left in his room, but Lorn suspects
that it will be worth serving for the majer, who has often provided
good, if indirect, advice before.

Weylt sits alone at the table, a platter with a large wedge of cheese
and a basket with two cold loaves of bread in the middle of the
battered but polished golden oak surface of the table.

Lorn uncorks the bottle, then seats himself and uses his belt knife to
cut several slices of the hard white cheese.  He pours a half goblet of
the Alafraan for himself and closer to a full one for the Mirror
Engineer majer.

Weylt takes a slow sip.  "Thank you, Captain.  You have the best wine
of all the compounds around the Forest."

"I was lucky.  My trader provided it."

"You were lucky in more than that."  Weylt breaks off a chunk of bread,
eating it with some cheese before speaking again.  "You were fortunate
we were free when your messenger arrived.  When we returned to
Eastpoint, there was a messenger from Captain Tysyr."

"He's at Eastpoint now?"

"That's right.  He replaced Ivinyt... about half a season ago.  He had
a trunk down on our side of the southeast midpoint chaos tower.  So...
a bit later, and you'd have been out there another day, perhaps two."

"I'm glad we weren't."  Lorn takes the bread and a large wedge of
cheese.  "We were there long enough."

Weylt nods deliberately, slowly.  "I did notice the charred remnants of
a large paper wasp nest, purely by accident."  Weylt smiles.  "I trust
you did not bother to put such an insignificant addition into your
patrol report."

"With the giant cats and the stun lizards?"  Lorn laughs.  "It didn't
seem that important, I must admit, and I never did get an accurate
count of the night leopards.  So I just mentioned that there seemed to
be two packs, and none escaped."

"Most sagacious, Captain."  Weylt lifts the goblet, but does not drink.
"I would say that you are not in the most enviable position.  Those two
trees were the largest I have seen.  They were among the most
substantial to have fallen, according to the Engineer records.  We keep
very accurate records, you understand?"

The lancer captain nods.

"Normally, those falls would release large numbers of creatures.  Yet
you have indicated that you reported success with keeping a modest
number from escaping.  A... skeptical superior might question the
numbers.  He would request our report, which would verify the size of
the fallen trees.  Then he would wait for reports of escaped creatures.
If such reports occur, of course, there might be disciplinary action
for falsification."  Weylt shrugs.  "You do not falsify, and... well...
sometimes the truth is even less palatable."  He takes a sip of the
Alafraan.  "Did I tell you that this is excellent wine?"

"No, but I believe it is, and I am fortunate to be able to share it
with you."

"There are times when I wonder whether I should have attempted to
remain an insignificant magus, and times when I wonder if I should have
tried for the Mirror Lancers."  The Mirror Engineer looks down at the
wine left in his goblet.  A wry and sardonic expression appears.  "Then
we have an event such as this, and I am most happy to be an Engineer.
I'm glad I'm not a lancer.  We are but expected to do what may be
necessary, and no one lets us near anything, especially in Cyad."

"We also do but what is expected."  Lorn takes another sip of wine. "It
can be difficult to attempt more."

"Ah, yes," replies Weylt, "and yet the time may come when more is
necessary.  It is difficult to recall that at times."  The majer
swallows the last of the wine.  "Best I go, for we need to return to
Eastpoint before too late tonight."  He stands.  "I thank you for the
wine, and the company, and wish you the best with your patrols and
reports."

Lorn follows the majer to his feet.  "Thank you.  I appreciate your
observations."

"Sometimes, that's all a good Engineer can do."  He looks at the table.
"Don't let me keep you from finishing your meal."  With that, Weylt
nods and departs.

Lorn re-seats himself and cuts another slice of cheese, his brow
furrowing as he considers Weylt's words and what they signify.

CX

Lorn takes a deep breath, and blots his forehead.  Despite the breeze
from the open window, the study is warm, a heat of a spring that
foreshadows an even warmer summer, he fears, and one that may bring
even more fallen trees and wild creatures.  The lancer captain has just
completed his patrol report for the second uneventful patrol since the
one that had involved the two fallen trees.  He has heard nothing from
either Maran or Commander Meylyd, nor have any replacement lancers yet
arrived at Jakaafra.  Lorn doubts that they will, but if he hears
nothing after another patrol, he will again request replacements.  He
has also noted his requests for replacements in the patrol reports kept
at Jakaafra.

He has just begun the summary report for Majer Maran when there is a th
rap on the door of the inner study.  He looks up to see Kusyl standing
there, a slight frown on his face.

"Majer Maran, scr."

Maran walks past Kusyl even before the senior squad leader has finished
announcing him.  "Greetings, Captain."

"My greetings to you, Majer," Lorn replies, standing, if somewhat
indolently.  "I had not expected you so soon."

Kusyl quickly retreats and closes the door.

"I am gratified to see that you are so industrious on your stand-down
day," Maran offers.  "Not that one would expect any less from such a
creative and hard-working captain."

Lorn smiles politely.

"I have received your patrol report-the one where Second Company
encountered two fallen trunks."  Maran again offers his warm and
concerned smile, and the brown eyes beam gently.  "It was a rather
amazing report."

Lorn shrugs gently, his eyes and senses fully upon the more senior
officer.  "It was accurate."

"Oh, I am most certain it was accurate.  Every report you have
submitted has been most truthful in every detail you have provided."

"And I have provided every important detail, Majer," Lorn continues,
"so that you and Commander Meylyd will be kept well informed."

"We both appreciate that.  Yes, we do."  Maran's smile turns vaguely
apologetic.  "Captain... there are a few items we should discuss.
Better alone, I would think.  I suggest that we should take a ride."

"Perhaps that would be best," Lorn concurs.  "Is your mount... ?"

"He is tied outside.  I will meet you by the gates," Maran suggests.
"Shortly."  He flashes his warm smile once more before he turns and
leaves.

For several moments, Lorn looks to the open window, knowing that he
must face the results of his decisions, and that, after today, there is
no turning from his course, that he-he and Ryalth, for his decisions no
longer impact but himself-are committed to long and dangerous years. He
shakes his head.  Being who he is, there never was another course, and
all he can do is work to ensure she is not too adversely affected. That
will be more than difficult, for his failure will lead to death.

He laughs, once, harshly.  Turning from one's dreams is a greater death
than failing to reach them.  A far worse death-that he has already seen
in others-for one experiences it each day anew.

Lorn stacks the reports and places the thin Lancer manual on them to
hold them against the breeze from the window before reclaiming the
Brystan sabre and clipping the scabbard to his belt.  Then he steps out
into the outer study.

"Scr?"  Kusyl looks up.

"I'll be taking a ride with Majer Maran," Lorn tells the senior squad
leader.  "He has requested I accompany him.  I would doubt it will be
long."  He grins ruefully at Kusyl.  "With senior officers, one never
knows, though."

"Noser"  Kusyl's brow furrows, but he does not speak further.

"I hope to be back soon."  Lorn adds as he leaves.

When he crosses the courtyard, he looks for the majer, but Maran has
already left or is on the other side of one of the courtyard
structures.

Suforis is not in the stable, and Lorn has finished saddling the
gelding and is leading him out before the blond ostler appears.

"You won't be riding him hard today, will you, scr?  I could get
another mount... ?  It would not take but a moment."

"No.  I doubt I'll travel more than a few kays.  Majer Maran has
something he wants to talk about or show me."

"Yes, scr."  Suforis's assent contains some doubt.

"There's no rain or chill, Suforis, and I won't be riding hard.  Or
far."  With a smile, Lorn mounts the gelding.  He rides at a walk
across the stone-paved courtyard and past the duty guards.

Maran is waiting, reined up a half-kay from the gates on the road that
leads past the chaos-tower building and toward the ward-wall.  The
majer's mount is the same white stallion he had ridden earlier when he
had given Lorn a tour of the ward-wall near Geliendra.

"You took your time, Captain."

"The ostler was out, and I had to saddle up my mount.  I wasn't
expecting to take a ride."  Lorn's voice is even, casual.

"No, I suppose you were not.  At least, not today."  A hint of
amusement colors Maran's deep and warm voice.  The majer's heels touch
the stallion's flanks, and the big mount carries the majer along the
access road.

Lorn follows Maran's lead, suppressing a knowing nod as the majer
follows the road that flanks the wall connecting the chaos tower
building to the ward-wall.  They turn southwest on the wall road,
riding toward Westend.

Lorn does not speak, just rides on the side of the road closest to the
wall, as the two officers cover first a kay, then nearly a second,
before Maran looks at Lorn again.  "It is too bad you were not born
five generations earlier, Captain."

"I appreciate the compliment."  Lorn laughs.  "But I like this time,
thank you."  He glances back over his shoulder, but he cannot make out
any figures near the compound, just the walls.

"This time does not behoove you."  Maran continues in his deep and
thoughtful tones, almost as if Lorn were not riding handful of cubits
away.  "You are capable, Captain, far too capable for a mere lancer."

"All lancers should strive to be capable," Lorn says conversationally,
breaking into the older officer's monologue, "as a mere beginning."

Maran glances at Lorn, the brown eyes momentarily flat, instead of
warm.

"Tell me, Maran," Lorn adds, deliberately omitting the senior officer's
title.  "When does a senior officer have the right to threaten the
lives of a junior's company and men for the sake of secretive plotting?
Or for the interests of a few senior officers in Cyad?"

Maran raises his eyebrows, and the warm smile returns to his deep brown
eyes.  "I do not believe that has ever occurred.  Threatening the lives
of lancers, that is."

"By the way," Lorn says, "I thought you might wish to know that you
have made my decisions far easier... oh, and that I have taken the
liberty of taking a consort."

"You did not consult with the Commander, or me, and that is usual.
Then, you seldom do the usual."

"But not required," Lorn says, "not under the Lancer Rules of
Procedure."  He continues to smile.

"There are many things which are not required, but wise, nonetheless,"
Maran adds, "as you will doubtless discover in your short career."

"No," Lorn replies quietly.  "As you will discover in a shorter
career."  He draws the Brystan sabre that looks little different from a
lancer sabre now that it shimmers with a cupridium finish.

"You do anticipate, Captain, but..."

Hssst."  The fire bolt of a full magus flies at Lorn.

Lorn raises the sabre and twists it, also twisting the shields he
holds, and flings the fire bolt energy he has now encased in black
order-ordered chaos-fire-back at the majer.  He turns the gelding so
that he faces Maran's right side.

"Trifling."  Maran languidly raises a hand as if to dispel the fire
bolt

Lorn follows the returned fire bolt with the sabre, letting it fly,
guided by chaos-order, and filled with the twined order and chaos he
has learned from the Accursed Forest.

"Uhhh!"  As the fire bolt shatters, the Brystan sabre's sharpened point
drives through the majer's shoulder.

The warm smile vanishes from the majer's face, and Lorn uses his chaos
senses to drive another order-chaos beam at Maran.

"Black... angel..."  Those are Maran's last words.  There are no
hisses, no screams-Maran's body just flares as the glowing golden white
of chaos, enfolded by the deep black of order, flows around it.  Then,
there are no traces that he had ever been there, except for a handful
of buckles, some coins-and the two sabres, Lorn's and Maran's, all of
which slide off the white leather of Maran's saddle.

Lorn sits stock-still for a moment, somehow both surprised that his
attack has been so successful and gratified that his understanding of
Maran has been so accurate.  He also silently thanks Majer Brevyl.

After that short moment, Lorn rides forward and grasps the reins of
Maran's stallion, then dismounts.

First, he reclaims the Brystan sabre, gleaming as if it had never drawn
blood.  Then, he gathers Maran's sabre and the metal in his gloved
hands.  He walks toward the ward-wall.

There he lifts the sabre... and tosses it over the ward-wall, followed
by the other metal remnants.  As the weapon crosses the chaos-net, it
flares, and the heat-shimmering blade tumbles into the greenery on the
inside of the granite.

After remounting the white gelding, Lorn leads the majer's mount along
the road for a time, although the stallion tosses his head more than
once.  After another kay, Lorn loops the reins over the saddle and
then, with a yell, and he slaps the fractious stallion's rump.  The
bigger mount trots a distance, then slows, but continues to the
southwest.

Lorn watches until he is certain the stallion will travel for at least
a time before he turns the gelding and begins the ride back to the
compound.

As he nears the gates, Lorn reins up and addresses the pair of guards.
"Majer Maran should be back later.  Tell him I'll be in my study."

"Yes, scr."

Suforis hurries from the tack room even before Lorn has fully led the
gelding into the stable.

"You see?  It wasn't all that long, and I never had him at more than a
fast walk."

"That be good, scr."  Suforis studies the gelding, then nods.

Lorn leaves his mount with the ostler and crosses the courtyard to
re-enter the company study.

"Scr?"  asks Kusyl.

"Majer Maran had a few words for me."  Lorn does not smile.  "He said
he would be back later when I had a chance to consider them."

"Ah... yes, scr.  I'm sorry, scr."

"We often have to do what our seniors wish, Kusyl."  Lorn's laugh is
harsh.  "As I'm sure you know."

"Ah... yes, scr."

With a nod, Lorn closes the door to the inner study.

He looks out the window once more.  From now on, even more than in the
past, he must watch and weigh every action, every word.  And he must
anticipate.

He wishes he could talk to Ryalth, but perhaps it is better that he
not, for a time.

Lorn shakes his head and seats himself at the desk, where he continues
work on the patrol summary report that Maran had interrupted.  He will
send that off, as required, with the next Engineer fire wagon  Then he
begins drafting yet another request to Commander Meylyd for replacement
lancers.  He has completed the second draft and is reading it when
there is a knock on the door.

"Scr?  There be some lancers here, asking of Majer Maran."

Lorn frowns.  "He hasn't come back?  Have them come in."  He remains
seated as two lancers step into the inner study.

"Scr.... squad leader Jugyt, scr, and Shalar, scr," offers the
broad-shouldered junior squad leader.  "We had been expecting the
majer... but none be seeing him."

Lorn offers a puzzled look.  "We took a short ride.  He said what he
had come to say, and then said he would be back later.  I came back,
and I haven't seen him since.  I thought he had come back and left with
you, since I hadn't heard anything."

"Noser"

Lorn fingers his chin.  "The last time I saw him, he was riding the
wall road, toward Westend, but we were only a few kays from here."  He
stands and calls, "Kusyl!"

"Yes, scr?"  Kusyl re-appears.

"Do you know if anyone has seen Majer Maran?"

"Noser"

"He said he was coming back, but his men here haven't seen him," Lorn
explains.

"I don't know as anyone has seen him since he left the compound,
scr."

Lorn purses his lips.  "If you'd check with the guards and any of the
men-or see if Juist's company saw him.  They rode back in a while
ago."

"Yes, se rAfter Kusyl leaves, Lorn looks at the two lancers.  "All we
can do is look and see if anyone saw him.  I'll have my company check
the area. It seems strange that he'd leave without you, but maybe he
did."

"He rides alone at times, it be true, scr, but always he returns," says
Jugyt.

Lorn shrugs helplessly.  "I scarcely know what to say.  We can check to
see if there has been a tree-fall nearby, or if there are any tracks on
the dead land He glances toward the window, and gestures toward the sun
that hangs just above the compound walls.  "Best we hasten."

"Yes, scr."

Lorn reclaims his sabre, then heads for the stable.  This time he will
use a spare mount, for despite the search for Majer Maran, Second
Company will still begin a patrol tomorrow.  After all, Maran would
certainly not to have wanted Lorn to deviate from accepted Mirror
Lancer procedures.

The captain who would be more offers a brief smile as he nears the
stable.

CXI

As Second Company rides slowly toward the gates of the compound at
Jakaafra, Lorn looks down at his blood-splattered trousers, and then at
the depleted fire lance in the holder.  The sun is almost touching the
western horizon, outlining the silhouettes of distant orchards to the
west, and casting long shadows from the walls of the compound.

Lorn does not look back at a company that is now really but the size of
a single full-strength squad, nor at the three mounts that bear dead
lancers.  They have not permitted any wild creatures to escape despite
another fallen trunk, but that is due to luck, and to the renewed
tendency of the creatures to attack the lancers, rather than to attempt
to escape beyond the dead land

"We getting any replacements, scr?"  Kusyl asks quietly, from where he
rides alongside Lorn.

"I've requested more lancers three times, Kusyl.  Majer Maran never
offered much encouragement, but he didn't say no, either.  That's if he
got back to Geliendra, but I haven't heard about that, either."

"Funny about that, scr.  His men found his mount, but not him.  Think
the Forest got him?  They say that happens, sometimes."

"It could have happened, but we didn't see any traces of wild
creatures."  Lorn shrugs tiredly as they near the gates.  "I just wish
he had sent us some more lancers.  The men are accomplishing the
impossible, but it can't go on."

"What if we just waited until the Engineers arrived?  Before getting
near the trunk, scr?"  asks Kusyl.

"We'd have as many dead lancers and some dead Engineers, probably, and
Second Company would have a new captain and new squad leaders," Lorn
replies.

"Thought it be like that, scr."  Kusyl shakes his head.  "Can't be
saying as I understand.  Do you, scr?"

"Not totally, Kusyl.  I've heard that the Magi'i are going to try
something, but that was seasons ago, and nothing has happened.  Maybe
they just want us to hang on until they can.  Or maybe it's something
else."

"Whatever it be, scr, best they do something or they'll have creatures
running free throughout northeast Cyador."

"The other companies are short of lancers, too," Lorn points out.

"Not near so short as Second Company."

"They don't face so many tree-falls."

Kusyl shakes his head sadly.

"Evening, scr," calls the gate guard as Lorn nears the gates.  "Hard
patrol?"

"Hard patrol," Lorn confirms.

He will send another request for replacements, little good as such
requests seem to do, but how can he not make such requests?

His fingers clench momentarily as he considers that senior officers-
Maran, and now Meylyd-are forcing him to choose between his own life
and risking his lancers.  Yet, were he to step aside, or let himself be
killed, nothing would change.

It may not, anyway, for all that he has chosen to follow dreams.

He pushes that thought aside.  He also pushes aside the desire to use
the chaos glass to view Meylyd.  If Meylyd is at all sensitive to its
use, that will create more problems, and Lorn knows of nothing to be
gained by using the glass for such a purpose.

For the moment.

CXII

Spring has come to Cyad, and the green and white awnings fill the
streets to the south of the Palace of Light under a clear green-blue
sky.  The Second Magus and the Captain-Commander of the Mirror Lancers
stand on one of the smaller western balconies of the Palace.

Kharl looks out at the harbor, where scaffolds enfold two white-hulled
fireships moored at a guarded white stone pier.

Luss glances at the two ships, then at Kharl.  "Matters do not look so
bright for the Quarter, these days."

"Nor for the Lancers.  Your casualties in the north are climbing, as
are they in the companies along the ward-wall of the Accursed Forest."
Kharl's green eyes shimmer with the hint overlying chaos-gold.  "And...
Maran is dead."

"Mirror Lancers do die in the course of duty," Luss says.  "We do
believe in duty, you may recall."

"You were the one who had expressed interest in Majer Maran, as I do
recall."

"It should bother me that a renegade mage who posed as a lancer has
died?"  asks Luss.

"It might, if you consider the implications," suggests Kharl.

Luss raises his eyebrows.  "Perhaps you should educate me, devious
one?"

Kharl merely shrugs.  After a time, he says, "The glass shows but the
ward-wall... and nothing beyond-as usual."  The Second Magus smiles
brightly.  "As I recall, he was supposed to deal with a certain
captain.  It would appear that the captain is clearly more experienced
than some had anticipated."

"In direct combat, he has much experience," concedes Luss.  "You had
assured me that he has little capability and experience as a magus."

"Perhaps he used a sabre," suggests Kharl.  "I merely suggest some
caution."

"And how would you suggest such caution be applied, O devious Second
Magus?"

"It would be best the Majer-Commander not discover this effort.  Nor
the Emperor, for who knows what he might ask of the Hand?  Yet... that
is up to you.  Were I, say, a captain-commander, I might send word to
Commander Meylyd that the Majer-Commander feels that unless there is
some evidence of what befell the majer, evidence that the Emperor would
regard as convincing, that the matter should be dropped with a quiet
warning to the captain."

"You think that wise?"

"Very wise... the captain will fight to survive.  If he is attacked by
another officer, such as your Overcaptain Hybyl, Hybyl will also die,
and then this Lorn will flee... or cover it up.  Either way, the
Majer-Commander will discover what has occurred.  He will need to blame
someone, perhaps someone rather high in the Mirror Lancer Court in
Cyad... someone he does not like.  It is better that this not come to
light yet... until later, and then it will appear that he ordered it to
be suppressed."

"Meylyd will try to find something," suggests Luss.

"I am certain he will attempt such.  If he does, the problem is
resolved.  If he does not, there will be another field commander
skeptical of the Majer-Commander, and one willing to tell the Emperor
that the Majer-Commander attempted to cover a murder.  Since the murder
cannot be proven, the rumor will be more effective."

Luss nods slowly.  "Devious as you are, that makes much sense.  But
what of the captain's future?"

"He appears to have developed certain skills... in anticipating or
avoiding certain uses of chaos.  To deal with him at Jakaafra would
make the effort, shall we say, rather obvious.  Then, if the First
Magus is successful in the effort to put the Forest to sleep, any
effort against the captain would become even more obvious."  Kharl
smiles.  "Were I a senior lancer officer, I would promote him to
overcaptain and then transfer him to where there is much...
conflict."

Luss shakes his head.  "A third such tour?  For the son of the Fourth
Magus?  That would come to Rynst's eyes before the captain reaches
Assyadt, and then the Majer-Commander would look far deeper.  I think
something like a port detachment, say in Biehl.  For a short time,
until he is forgotten.  He also may encounter... certain difficulties
there...."  Luss smiles.  "Then, if necessary, a tour in Assyadt, after
another promotion, so that he will be most inexperienced and also
less... conditioned to combat.  Also, if he is transferred now, before
a full turn of duty... his time in Cyad will be limited."

"Best he be in Cyad for but a short period now, rather than a longer
time later," Kharl agrees.  "And best he be away from the Accursed
Forest while the sleep barrier of the First Magus is created."

Both men nod.

"If he should survive yet more conflict, then he should come to Cyad as
an aide to the Majer-Commander... say, when it is most appropriate,"
suggests Kharl.

"After certain other events?"

"Exactly."

Without another word, the two turn away from the view of the harbor and
from the striped awnings whose unfurling heralds spring in Cyad.

CXIII

Sitting behind his study desk, Lorn looks at the pen holder, and then
at the open window, and the low clouds that promise rain that has not
yet arrived.  Second Company has completed another full patrol,
encountering only shoots from seeds, and Lorn must write another patrol
report, and a summary, and decide whether to again request replacement
lancers-and sit and wait to see how Commander Meylyd will react to
Maran's disappearance.

Finally, Lorn picks up the pen and begins to detail the last report. He
has barely written three lines when Kusyl steps into the study.

"Yes?"

"Scr!  There's a fire wagon here, and Commander Meylyd.  He's coming
this way."

Lorn finds a sardonic smile on his lips.  "Perhaps he will tell us
about our replacement lancers, then."

"Scr?"

Lorn shakes his head, standing quickly.

At the sound of voices, Kusyl steps back and holds the door to the
inner study as the Commander enters, followed by a smaller officer, an
overcaptain.  The squad leader closes it gently but firmly as he
leaves.

Meylyd does not take a chair, but addresses Lorn directly.  "Captain...
I am sure you know why I am here.  This is Overcaptain Hybyl.  He was
Majer Maran's deputy."

Behind two officers, Kusyl opens the door and slides in a chair and
then silently closes the door once more.

"I am afraid I do not."  Lorn offers a polite but confused expression.
"I must admit I cannot honestly say I know why you are here, saving for
my continual requests for replacement lancers."

"You cannot say?"  Meylyd now offers a quizzical expression.  "Majer
Maran indicated he was not pleased with you before he left.  And you
pretend you don't know that?  When he disappeared immediately after
meeting with you?  At a meeting outside the compound where no one but
you two happened to be present?"

"Noser  I knew that the majer was displeased.  He took me for a quiet
ride, where none would hear, he said.  And he told me that while you
were pleased with my results in containing the wild creatures, he was
not happy with the strategies I had adopted.  He said they were against
patrol doctrine."

Hybyl nods.  "He reported such before he departed Geliendra."

"For the record, Captain, with exactly what tactic was Majer Maran
displeased?"  asks Meylyd.

"My using myself as a target and carrying two fire lances  Lorn shrugs.
"There isn't anything against it in the manual, and since we're
understrength, I didn't think one extra fire lance would be a
problem-at the time, that was still something like fifteen less than
full complement, and it left the extra in the hands of an officer."

Another puzzled look passes between the two officers.

"Now, we have but half the requisite complement, and I had thought you
might be here to discuss my requests for replacements."  Lorn gestures
to the single chair.  "Ah, serif you'd like a seat?"

The Commander takes the chair Kusyl had shoved into the room, and Hybyl
takes the armless one before the desk.

Lorn seats himself slowly, after the other two, waiting.

"Now, if you would continue, Captain... With an account of your meeting
with Majer Maran," commands Meylyd.

"I don't know that there's that much more to say, scr.  Majer Maran
told me to use standard patrol tactics, and he said that I needed to
contain the wild creatures without wasting chaos charges.  He said that
you expected I follow standard procedures.  I told him what I just told
you, and he said that sometimes junior officers needed to understand
that not all accepted procedures were written out.  He made that very
clear.  I told him I'd give up the extra fire lance if that would
help."

"And?"

"He got very polite, scr.  He said that I was not quite hopeless and
that I had better act like every other captain, and that he would be
watching me closely.  Except that he said all of that much more
politely and indirectly, and very pleasantly."  Lorn shrugs.  "I could
not begin to repeat the way he said things."

A faint smile crosses Hybyl's lips.

"And what did you do after your ride?"  asks Meylyd.

"I came back here.  He said he needed a moment, and that he'd be back
in a bit.  I kept looking for him, but he didn't come back.  I'd
thought at first he'd decided to ride to Westend, but when his lancers
came back and said he hadn't, we all went looking.  We found his mount
some three kays from where I left him, but we didn't find him.  We
didn't find any boot tracks either.  You know that, I think, from the
report I sent."

"I think we'll talk to your men, if you don't mind, Captain.  I'd
appreciate your remaining here in your study."  Meylyd rises.  "Then,
I'll be back to talk to you."

Lorn stands.  "Yes, scr.  They'll tell you everything they know."

"I'm most certain that they will."  Meylyd smiles coldly.

Hybyl does not smile at all as the two leave.

After a long moment, Lorn shrugs and sits down.  While it may make no
difference, he returns to drafting the last patrol report.

He has long since finished it, and trusting that his analysis of the
commander's position is correct, grateful that, if his decision of how
to deal with Maran was wrong, at least, the results will not directly
affect Ryalth.  As he is looking out his open window at the clouds that
have gotten ever darker as the morning has turned into afternoon, he
turns at the sound of voices and is standing behind his desk when
Meylyd and Hybyl step back into the study.

Hybyl closes the door.

Meylyd motions for Lorn to sit down, then takes the larger chair and
seats himself.

Both officers from Geliendra glance at the closed door.

"Everything appears as you have said, captain," Meylyd begins.  "And
all the men are telling the truth.  That presents a puzzle.  Majer
Maran was most capable.  So, clearly, are you.  Yet the majer had no
reason to disappear, and you were the last to see him."

Lorn waits.

"Do you have anything to say about this?"

"Nothing I haven't said, scr.  I know the majer intended to do
something as far as I was concerned, but he didn't tell me.  And he
never returned to the compound."

"His lancers found his mount."

"Yes, scr.  I was with them.  So was squad leader Shynt."

Meylyd glances at the overcaptain.  "If you would go, Hybyl, and make
sure the outer study is empty, and stays that way."

"Yes, scr."

Meylyd studies Lorn as he waits for the two doors to close.  His mouth
smiles before he speaks, but his eyes are cold.  "We have a difficult
situation.  On the one hand, there is a lancer captain who is holding
the most difficult stretch of the ward-wall.  He tends to, shall we
say, use lancer techniques in a somewhat different manner.  But his
results are good, and all the local... eminences... are pleased.  On
the other hand, we have distinguished lancer majer who is most
concerned about the ward-wall and the captain.  The two meet; the
captain returns; the majer rides off and is never seen again.  There is
no evidence of anything.  Even the horse tracks show that.  Yes, I
checked with the lancers on that.  The two men rode together; they sat
mounted and talked.  One of them dismounted and walked and then
remounted, and they rode southwest for a time and then they parted. And
the majer vanished from his mount.  Was he plucked from it by something
from the Accursed Forest?"  Meylyd shrugs.

Lorn remains silent, waiting.

"I asked for guidance from the Majer-Commander.  I was told that it was
best that I not act unless there were facts to support me.  So... I
guess there's nothing more to be said, Captain."  Meylyd pauses.  "It's
clear that the majer had something in mind.  A pity that he didn't tell
me... or you.  Whatever happened, it's also clear that no one will
never know.  Perhaps it's better that way."  Meylyd looks out the study
window for a long moment, as if considering whether he should say more,
before turning back to Lorn.  "I do expect you to follow the guidelines
he laid out, to the very letter.  Overcaptain Hybyl will be taking the
majer's place.  He'll be promoted to sub-majer shortly, and you'll send
your reports to him.  I cannot stress how accurate I expect those
reports to be."

"Yes, scr."

"And, Captain, Majer Maran was very capable.  I hope you understand
that."

"Yes, scr."

"I intend to hold you to those standards."  Meylyd rises.  "And, to
ensure that there are no more deviations from lancer tactics, your
replacements will arrive within the next few days.  They are on their
way from Westend."

"Yes, scr.  I understand, scr."

Meylyd nods coldly.  "Good day, Captain."  After a last cold stare, he
turns and walks out, leaving both doors open.

Lorn wonders if the Majer-Commander of lancers really had been
consulted, and if so, why?

Still, for the moment, there will be replacement lancers, even if every
one has been ordered to report anything strange that Lorn does.

Lorn takes a deep breath.

Outside, a warm drizzle has begun to fall.

CXIV

Outside the Jakaafra compound's stable, Lorn slowly dismounts from the
gelding, noting again the long scratch along his mount's shoulder, a
scratch he has helped heal with minute amounts of the black order, as
he had been taught so many years before by Myryan and Jerial.  While in
the lancers, of necessity, he has held his healing efforts to those
which take little effort and which are little remarked.

His own uniform has rips in the trousers at boot level and more than a
few splatters of blood from the latest attacks by giant cats and night
leopards.  He now has but one uniform left that is not soiled beyond
repair and cleaning with blood or other gore-and that is only because
it is the one that arrived from Ryalth with the latest shipment of
wine.  In his next scroll, he will have to ask if she can have another
tailored and sent, although he dislikes asking for such, when she has
given and risked so much for him already.

Lorn glances back across the courtyard, then shakes his head.  He has
already seen to the collection of the fire lances and their storage in
the armory, not that they pose much danger in their discharged state.

"Scr?"  asks Suforis as Lorn leads the gelding into the stable.  "You
have another hard patrol?"

"Yes."  Lorn does not elaborate on the two latest lancers Second
Company has lost, or upon the cold scrutiny that falls over his every
move from many of the replacement lancers.

"Sorry to hear that, Captain."

"Some patrols are like that."  Lorn unfastens his gear, and the spare
sabre, easing the saddle bags onto his shoulder.

"Yes, scr."

"That's my problem, not yours.  How is Lesyna?"

"She be fine, scr."  Suforis smiles.

"Good."  Lorn nods and, in the early twilight, walks from the stable
toward the quarter's building.  The courtyard is almost empty, the
lancers already in the meal hall, he suspects.

Juist walks from the small administrative building, glancing around,
then calls, "Lorn!"  The undercaptain motions, and Lorn forces himself
into a walk demonstrating energy he does not feel, not after another
patrol extended by a fallen tree.

As Lorn nears, Juist holds a scroll that he lifts.  "Hybyl's squad
leader came with the Engineers.  Dropped this off for you.  Insisted I
give it to you personally."  He grins and holds up a small leather
pouch.  "And this.  If I be not mistaken, in here are the arched bars
of an overcaptain."

"After all the admonitions I've received?"  Lorn asks.

"Could be, just might be, that the Majer-Commander likes results,"
Juist suggests.  "Meylyd likes to do things the way the Lancers always
did 'em.  Doesn't work so well, from what I'm hearing."

Lorn offers a wry smile.  "What are you hearing?"

"Other captains losing almost as many men, except they're seeing half
the tree-falls.  Those reports go to Cyad, you know?"

"I know they go.  I wasn't sure anyone read them."

Juist hands over the pouch.  "Going to open it?"

Lorn shifts the saddle bags and takes the pouch, opening it gingerly.
Juist is right.  Inside are two sets of linked double bars, with the
arch above them, signifying an overcaptain.  He eases the insignia back
into the pouch, and slips it inside his tunic.

"Told you," says Juist.  "You're going to be someone, and I'll be happy
to tell everyone I knew you-'cept I'll be doing it from in front of a
hearth stove for years afore you're out of the saddle."  The
undercaptain grins.

"You're not upset?"

"Me?"  The shorter and older officer shakes his head.  "Lucky to be an
undercaptain.  Don't come from the right places, and don't talk fancy,
and except for covering furloughs a few times a year, I don't have to
mess with the Forest.  Another three years, and I can take my pension.
Few enough lancers get 'em."  He glances at the scroll.

Lorn breaks the seal and reads quickly, squinting to make out the words
in the dim light of the courtyard.

"Well... Overcaptain?"  Juist asks after a moment.

"They're sending me to Biehl, to head the port detachment there."

Juist laughs.  "Hard to believe.  It makes sense.  Give a good officer
a tour where someone's not out to kill him every day... maybe learn
something besides tactics."

Lorn shakes his head.

"Take the good, Lorn," Juist advises.  "You taken enough of the bad."

The new overcaptain forces a smile.  "Thank you.  I'll try."  Even as
he speaks, he wonders just how good the promotion and transfer are.
With a last nod to Juist, Lorn walks to his own quarters.

After lighting the lamp, he reads the order scroll again... and a third
time.  Then he washes up quickly, but does not change out of his
uniform, and he heads to the officers' dining area, carrying a bottle
of the Fhynyco.  Juist and Ilryk have already begun to eat the mutton
stew, over peppered enough that Lorn can smell the seasonings even
before he sits down.

"Didn't know as you were coming, lucky fellow," offers Juist, with a
laugh.

"Is it true?"  asks Ilryk.

"It looks to be," Lorn says.

"The bottle he brings says so.  "Sides, it was that sub-majer Hybyl's
squad leader that brought it.  Sour face he had too."  Juist laughs.

Lorn uncorks the bottle and half-fills the three heavy goblets.

"At least with a sour face, you can read something.  Maran always
smiled, always looked like he cared."  Ilryk pauses, then turns to
Lorn.  "You saw him last.  He was headed to Westend, wasn't he?"

Lorn takes a sip of the Fhynyco before answering.  "He was riding in
that direction.  He didn't tell me what he had in mind.  Except
complaining about the way I handled Second Company."

"He didn't like the way I handle my company," Ilryk replies.  "He said
I should always be well in the fore, so that my men could see me."  The
blond captain shrugs.  "I am always in the front rank, but too far
forward, and I cannot see where they are, and that makes it difficult
to give orders."

Lorn shakes his head.  "He told me not to be well in the fore.  He said
I was too far forward."

Ilryk laughs.  "Senior officers."  He raises his goblet.  "May you not
be as they, Overcaptain!  May you remember what it was like to be a
mere captain."

"You'll be an overcaptain before long," Lorn suggests after accepting
the impromptu toast.  He breaks off a chunk of stale bread and dips it
in the over seasoned stew.

"One never counts on a promotion until the emblem is on your collar.
Not in the lancers."  Ilryk raises his glass.  "One can but count on
the wine one drinks today."

"That be too true," Juist agrees.

Lorn has to nod to that, and then he takes another mouthful of the
mutton stew.

"Good wine," Ilryk adds.  "Thank you."

"I'm glad you like it."

Although the day has been long, Lorn finds he can barely eat one
helping of the thick and heavily spiced stew, and excuses himself
early, leaving the remainder of the Fhynyco for the other two
officers.

Back in his quarters, he reads the scroll again.  From what it says,
his promotion is already effective, and he can wear the new insignia
immediately.  While the next day is a stand-down day, he needs to get a
message to Ryalth immediately.

He sits down at the narrow desk in his quarters, under the pool of
light cast by the small lamp, and lays out one of the few remaining
sheets of paper, then dips the pen in the inkwell.  The scroll will
definitely go by Suforis through Dustyn-early on the next day.

My dearest,

I have been notified rather suddenly that I am being promoted and
transferred, almost two years before I expected such.  Within three
eight days I will be in Cyad, on my way to take over the Mirror Lancer
port compound in Biehl... He pauses, then continues.

I will only be in Cyad for an eight day and a few days, because I am
not due for home leave for another two years, and I dearly hope that
this does not find you traveling elsewhere.  Still, we must take the
opportunities we have in an uncertain world.

He can think of no news that may help her trading, nor of anything else
of import as great as his coming to Cyad.  Reluctantly, he adds another
line.

If you would arrange for another three sets of uniforms for me, I will
repay you when I arrive in Cyad.  I will be there so short a time, I
fear that they would not be ready were I to wait until I arrive.

He looks out his window, but the clouds block the stars.  Finally, he
picks up the pen and dips it again and closes.

I look to those moments we will have together, and to seeing you again
far sooner than I had thought possible.... With all my affection and
love... Yawning, he sets aside the pen.  He must still write his
family, and, on the morrow, finish another set of patrol reports.  The
day after will be another patrol.  There will be one more after that
before he can leave Jakaafra, more than enough time to find himself in
trouble if he does not maintain his guard and his skills in dealing
with the Accursed Forest.

Then... will he ever not find himself facing trouble in such times, he
being who he is and not what others would wish?

He looks into the darkness.  Is that not what all men believe?  How is
he any different from them?

For that, he has no answer, not one that does not flatter his
self-esteem.

CXV

Lorn recognizes the face of the officer who rides into Jakaafra
compound late in the afternoon, but for a moment cannot recall the
name.  The black-bearded captain is swarthy, and his height is well
above average.

Akytol-the name comes to Lorn-was the older lancer officer candidate
with whom he had ridden in the fire wagon to Kynstaar when he had first
left Cyad for lancer training.  Lorn nods to himself and starts across
the courtyard.  He reaches the stable just behind the big lancer
officer.

"Stable!"  Akytol calls.

Suforis steps out into the courtyard and looks up at the tall captain.
"Yes, scr?"

"Is this where I can stable my mount?"

"Yes, scr."

Lorn walks toward the older, but now junior officer, as Akytol
dismounts outside the compound stable.

The black-bearded officer frowns as Lorn approaches, but then looks
back at Suforis to hand over his mount's reins.

"You're here to take command of Second Company?"  Lorn asks
pleasantly.

"Yes."  Akytol turns, and adds, quickly, "Ah, yes, scr."  as the late
afternoon light of spring glints off the linked bars with the
overcaptain's arch that are fastened to Lorn's collar.

The ostler glances from Akytol to Lorn.

"This is Captain Akytol, Suforis," Lorn explains.  "He is a
well-respected and very solid Lancer officer."

Akytol continues to wear a vaguely puzzled expression, as if he still
cannot place Lorn.

"I'm Lorn.  We left Cyad together for Kynstaar a number of years ago."
Akytol swallows.  "Oh... I am sorry, scr.  I did not recognize you."

"That's all right.  We all change over the years.  You always wore a
beard, and that made it easier for me.  If you will get your gear, I
can show you the quarters.  You can either have the first room, or mine
after I leave tomorrow.  It's your choice.  Then I'll show you the
studies, and we can talk over the evening meal, such as it is."

"I would appreciate that."  Akytol nods awkwardly.  He turns to
unfasten the two large kit bags from behind his saddle, then follows
Lorn across the courtyard.

"This is the only compound without an Engineer detachment, and the
other company here is really a domestic peacekeeping company.  It's
commanded by Undercaptain Juist," Lorn explains.  "They'll take over
patrols during company furloughs, but otherwise, you have full
responsibility for the northeast ward-wall."

"Sub-Majer Hybyl did say something about that."  Lorn opens the door to
the quarters.  "You can put your gear in the first room.  I've always
used the second."  While Akytol deposits his bags, Lorn takes the last
bottle of Alafraan from his wardrobe, and rejoins the captain.  Then
Lorn leads the taller officer back into the courtyard and to the small
administrative building.

"Our spaces are the first ones.  The outer study is for the lancer
records, and the senior squad leader."  Lorn opens the door, but Kusyl
has already left for the day.  Lorn opens the inner door.  "This will
be your study.  The small foot chest there holds the patrol reports and
other papers.  I'll give you the key in the morning."

Akytol nods.

"Now... let's get something to eat."

The officers' dining area is empty, as Lorn had guessed, since Juist
had left early in the morning to handle a problem some forty kays to
the west at a town Lorn had not heard of before that morning and since
Ilryk is not due for several days, assuming Fifth Company has not found
another downed tree.

Lorn uncorks the wine and fills one of the goblets, but only half-fills
his own.  Then he sits.  As if waiting for them, a server appears drops
a casserole dish on the table with the usual basket of bread.

"Fowl, I think," Lorn guesses.  "It's more often mutton."  He gestures
to the dish.  "Go ahead."

As Akytol serves himself, Lorn continues, "You have to keep patrol
reports, just as with the barbarians, but you also have to send a
summary report to Sub-Majer Hybyl after each complete patrol-out to
Eastend and back...."  Lorn goes on to explain the location of reports
and lancer records, serving himself as he does.

As Lorn speaks, Akytol's eyes take in the overcaptain's bars again, for
at least the third time since they have been seated in the officers'
dining area.  "handled by the senior squad leader-that's Kusyl." Lorn
stops, and refills Akytol's goblet.

"Thank you."

"Where have you been?"  asks Lorn.

"At Inividra-that's one of the outposts under Assyadt.  I had Third
Company there."

"The last year or so, you've had more barbarian attacks, they say."

"Almost twice as many as before.  We're seeing more Brystan weapons,
too.  Better iron, sometimes nearly as hard as cupridium."  Akytol
refills his platter.  "The size of the raiding parties is larger,
too."

"Archers?"  Lorn asks almost idly, taking a small sip of the
Alafraan.

"Some.  They say there weren't any years ago.  They're not very good.
Take a good fire lance any day."  Akytol swallows the last of the
Alafraan in his goblet.  "Good wine."

"It's Alafraan.  A friend sent me some.  It would be hard to take it
with me."  Lorn refills Akytol's heavy and crude glass goblet.

"It is good."

"The barbarians just charged us when I was at Isahl," Lorn observes.
"Was it that way at Inividra?"

Akytol nods, his mouth full.

Lorn waits, encouraging the bigger officer to go on.  "just take those
big blades and charge at you.  They didn't seem to care who they
charged... officer or ranker.  Lately, a couple of groups showed up
with local lances-long poles with bill hooks on 'em.  Nasty if they got
too close."  Akytol takes another large swallow of the Alafraan.
"Except they're better suited to a footman."

"Or if your fire lances charges are low."

Akytol nods again.  "A couple of times, we didn't get full charges
before we had to go out.  Lost a quarter score just on that count.
Sub-majer said he couldn't do anything, that the Magi'i were having
some sort of trouble, he guessed."  The bigger officer snorts.

"I understand an old acquaintance of mine is at Assyadt.  A Sub-Majer
Dettaur.  We grew up together.  Have you run across him?"  Lorn refills
Akytol's goblet a second time.

"Sub-Majer Dettaur... he's number two at the headquarters in Assyadt.
Sometimes, takes a patrol.  Good man."

"He was always good with blades, any kind," Lorn suggests.

"He still spars a lot, I hear, but I wasn't there much.  It's a good
sixty kays from Assyadt to Inividra."  Akytol frowns.  "You have a
sister... ah, scr?"

"I have two.  Sub-Majer Dettaur once courted one of them."

"You have a... certain reputation...."  Akytol says slowly.  "I had not
realized..."

Lorn nods.  "I'm aware of that.  That's why you're getting Second
Company, I'm sure.  Commander Meylyd and Sub-Majer Hybyl wish that my
replacement be a lancer who is very traditional.  They're quite pleased
that you were available, I am certain."

"Sub-majer didn't say much beyond outlining procedures, and providing a
patrol manual."

"It is a good idea to read it carefully," Lorn says, almost dryly.  "I
might add that it is acceptable to use a staggered line of five abreast
in facing the wild creatures.  The giant cats and stun lizards are more
durable than the barbarians, and you will need as many fire lances as
you can focus on them.  And the giant serpents-we only came across one
of those-I don't think they're terribly dangerous so long as you stay
back from them.  So I'd suggest dealing with a serpent after all the
other dangers and creatures...."  He smiles.  "The manual doesn't
mention serpents, but squad leader Kusyl can tell you more, if you wish
to know."

"Giant serpents?"

Lorn nods, looking down at his empty platter, not that he has eaten all
that much.  "I will sign over Second Company in the morning."  Lorn
pauses.  "Do you have any other questions I might answer?"

"Any place where I can get wine like that?"  Akytol grins.

"You might try the spirit factor in the town of Jakaafra.  His name is
Dustyn.  He can get any number of types of spirits.  So can the
chandler, I've been told, but I used the spirit factor."

"Good to know."  Akytol nods.  "Where are you going, serA port
detachment in Biehl.  A partial tour, I think, although no one has
said."

"You're lucky, scr.  Like to get one of those myself, one day."

"Perhaps you will."  Lorn stands.  "I need to take care of a few
things.  You can have the rest of the bottle.  I'll see you in the
morning."

"Are you sure... I would not wish to impose."  Akytol stands.

"Enjoy it."  Lorn laughs gently, gesturing for the taller officer to
sit down.

"Thank you, scr."  Akytol remains standing until Lorn departs.

As he returns to his room, Lorn is glad that he has already made
arrangements for shipping all the remaining goods in the small dwelling
on the east road from Jakaafra back to Cyad and to Ryalor House-as well
as paying Dustyn an extra pair of silvers for two seasons' use of the
house.

He also hopes that the lancers of Second Company will not suffer too
much before either the Magi'i complete their mysterious project to
contain the Accursed Forest or before the Forest kills Akytol.  He
fears the latter is more likely.  Although he does not dislike the big
officer whose traditional approach may prove all too convenient for
Sub-Majer Hybyl, there is little he can say or do that will change
Akytol.

As he lifts the silver volume once more, Lorn smiles, recalling pears
and praise.  He hopes his brief season in Cyad will be one he can
recall and praise.  His smiles broadens as he thinks of Ryalth and
begins to pack the last of the few items he will carry with him when he
leaves with the engineer's fire wagon on the morrow.

Will he see the Accursed Forest again?  Or will whatever project the
Magi'i have in mind render it a memory, its reality changed before he
returns-if he returns.

His lips curl into a smile.  He will see Ryalth, again, and for a time
he had even feared that might not occur.

As Ilryk has said, "One can but count on the wine one drinks today."
And it looks as though he and Ryalth will have at least one other day.
Beyond that, neither knows.

CXVI

In the front compartment of the fire wagon only Lorn is awake.  The
Mirror Lancer Majer to his right sleeps, as does the corpulent factor
seated across from them.  Lorn looks out into the darkness, a clouded
darkness deep and lit-only to him-by the hints of chaos escaping from
the cells of the six-wheeled vehicle as it rumbles westward across the
smooth stones of the Great Eastern Highway toward Cyad-and Ryalth.

Lorn has killed a senior officer.  Maran is dead, and Maran should be
dead, for Maran would have let lancers die, unwisely and unnecessarily,
rather than see Lorn survive.  Lorn frowns.  Scores of barbarians are
dead because of Lorn, and some lancers in Isahl live because Lorn has
been effective at killing.  Is Cyad worth all the deaths it causes to
come to pass-one way or another?  Or are Lorn's dreams worth those
deaths?

Life without dreams is death, but are Lorn's hopes to lead a better
Cyad worth more than Maran's dreams of holding together an old Cyad, or
worth more than the barbarians' dreams of bringing it down?  Does the
best dream win?  Or the most powerful dreamer?  Or are all dreams
merely illusions that crumple in the end upon the Steps to Paradise
with the deaths of their dreamers?

And what of Ryalth?  Although she knows his dreams, and has helped him
in surviving, and in feeling that what he dreams is worthy... with each
action he takes, the possible repercussions are greater, and so are the
threats to her.

The mer chanter across the compartment snores, shifts his weight, and
lapses back into heavy breathing.

As the fire wagon carries him ever closer to Cyad, Lorn continues to
look into the future and the darkness, a darkness lightened by the
chaos only he can see-and lightened but dimly for all that.

CXVII

Lorn walks across the Plaza to the wide steps leading up to the topmost
level.  For the first time, he wears his lancer uniform in the Plaza,
and more than a handful of mer chanters in blue glance in his
direction. He cannot help smiling, half in apprehension, half in
anticipation as he nears the steps.  "...overcaptain... don't know
him..."  "don't see many here..."

"Someone's heir... guess..."

With his smile still broad, he climbs the wide steps in the middle of
the two wings of the structure, wondering whether to turn right or left
at the top, since he only knows that Ryalor House now holds the entire
upper level.  He turns left, and discovers that all the doors are
closed.  Retracing his steps to the stairs and past them, he comes to a
set of open double doors.

After noting the painted emblem above the open double doors-the
intertwined R and L within the inverted triangle-Lorn nods and steps
through the doors.  Amid the tables and the handful of mer chanters in
blue, he does not see Ryalth immediately, although there is a closed
door that looks to lead to a private study.

"Scr?"  asks a thin-faced junior enumerator, standing from a table on
which are piled stacks of wrinkled papers.  He steps forward as if to
question Lorn's very presence.  "Might I help you in some way?"

A thin-faced, slender and gray-eyed senior enumerator rises from a
table desk in the corner and slips forward quickly.  "Sygul... this is
Overcaptain Lorn-the Overcaptain Lorn," Eileyt says quickly.

"Oh, scr... I'm so sorry."  Sygul bows deeply.  "I'm so sorry.  It's...
well... no one ever described you...."

Lorn laughs gently.  "I'm not five cubits tall with shoulders that
touch both sides of the door?  I'm afraid not."  He looks at Eileyt.
"Is she here?"

"She is, and I think that all of us will feel better if we escort you
there before she sees you being detained here."  Eileyt turns toward
the closed door at the left side of the trading tables.  "didn't
know..."  "don't let her know that.... You think she be tough on an
improper invoice..."

Lorn smiles sympathetically as he follows the senior enumerator.

Eileyt knocks on the closed door.  "Lady... there is a most important
personage here to see you.  Most important."  He grins.

"Show him in, Eileyt."

Lorn opens the door and steps inside.

Ryalth and an older balding trader in the orange of Hamor are seated on
opposite sides of a desk table.  The study is almost stark, with but
the desk table and a handful of chairs, several chests lined up against
the side wall.  There are two high rear windows, both barred.

The gray and balding trader turns, and Lorn can see the annoyance in
his eyes.  Ryalth's eyes widen and she stands.

Lorn smiles.  "I can wait, but Eileyt suggested I should make my
presence known."

Ryalth gestures to the sitting trader.  "This is Duhabrah.  He is the
representative of his house in Cyad."

Lorn bows.  "I apologize for the interruption, and I am most pleased to
meet you."

"The overcaptain and his house were the first backers of Ryalor."

Ryalth smiles.  "He is the one who made the trade of the amber gold
spirits possible... and a number of other unusual goods.  Some of the
goods we were talking about."

The trader surveys Lorn more closely.  "You are not a trader born, I
would say."

"No.  My family is elthage."  At the traders' blank look, Lorn adds,
"Of the Magi'i."

"A Lancer officer of Magi'i blood who is involved in trade!"  Duhabrah
laughs, a full rumbling laugh.  "Lady trader... I see more from this
than from all else, and I am pleased I am here."

Lorn bows.  "I will leave you two to your trading.  Eileyt will show me
around," he adds.  "I have not seen all that is here."

Ryalth returns his bow with a smile.

Lorn steps back, closing the door gently, and turns to Eileyt.  "She
told you to bring me in, even if she were with someone?"

"Yes, scr."

Lorn nods.  He gestures around the large room.  "Tell me a bit about
each person and what he does."

Eileyt clears his throat.  "Sygul-the one near the door-is a junior
enumerator.  He checks the commodities boards in the Plaza below, and
lets me know if anything changes by more than a twentieth-or if he
thinks something is happening to the prices of grains, fruits, the more
widely traded metals.  We don't trade them, except for dried fruits and
at times iron and cuprite, but the Lady Ryalth can tell from knowing
that prices are changing what else may be affected.  He also checks the
bills of lading against the invoices to make sure the quantities are
the same, and..."

Lorn follows the enumerator's restrained gestures, listening.

"Kutyr-the one in the blond beard in the corner-he is a trader, mostly
in fruits and spirits.... He will travel to Hydlen in several
eight-days to purchase the advance contracts on dried fruit...."

Lorn nods as Eileyt goes around the large room, although the
overcaptain doubts he totally understands about half of what the
enumerator says-or rather the meaning beyond the words themselves.

"And you," Lorn says, when Eileyt has finished his summary, "you're the
one that makes sure everyone does what they must, and the one who keeps
the ledgers?"

"The Lady keeps the ledgers, but she requires that I check them to
ensure aught is well, and accurate."

"You find mistakes... but not many, I'd guess."

"Few," Eileyt says, "but it is best that way, for the Emperor's tariff
enumerators require double any discrepancies as penalties.  And
Bluoyal-the Emperor's Merchanter Advisor-is hardly loath to suggest
that those houses that are caught cheating steal from the others
because the rest of us must pay more in tariffs while they pay less."

Lorn has never heard of the tariff enumerators, but he nods, wondering
what else there is that his education and experience have overlooked.
He also notes the vaguely distasteful manner in which Eileyt refers to
Bluoyal, and reminds himself to ask Ryalth about the man.

The study door opens, and Ryalth escorts Duhabrah to the main doors of
Ryalor House, where the foreign trader bows twice and departs, smiling
effusively.

Eileyt slides away as Ryalth returns to where Lorn stands.  Without
speaking, he follows her into her study where she is the one to close
the door.

They embrace.

After a long time, they separate, and Ryalth looks at Lorn, eye to eye.
"You came here first, didn't you?"

"Almost... I dropped my gear inside the door at my parents, said hello
and left.  I did kiss my mother.  I wasn't sure about trying to enter
your quarters, if you even have the same ones, my wealthy mer chanter
lady..."

"I'm not that wealthy."

"Everyone thinks you are."  Lorn grins.  "And most beautiful."

Ryalth shakes her head.  "You are impossible.  Still."

"Very impossible... and wondering if we can depart before too long."

She smiles.  "I am almost through for the day, and we can leave
shortly."

"Ah... mother did ask if we could join them for dinner."  Lorn shrugs
apologetically.  "I would not... with so little time... yet..."

"I know.  Jerial has already conveyed an invitation for whatever night
you arrived, and I agreed."  She grins back.  "I told her we would not
stay late, and she said that she would make sure of that, as well."

"You have everything arranged."  Lorn shakes his head.  "You two."

"Not everything, but your family has been far warmer than ever I would
have imagined."  Her smile fades.  "They are most cautious, though."
The redhead shivers.  "I would not live like that, knowing every word
be measured, every action watched."

"It may come to that," Lorn says.  "You have seen that... or felt it...
with me."

"For you, that I will accept, but not merely because of birth and
station."

Lorn kisses her again.

"We will not soon leave here, and we will be late for dinner... if you
do not permit me to finish."

"Finish what?"

"The report that goes with the seasonal import tariffs for the
Emperor."

"I would ask," Lorn says, letting go of her hands.

"I will hasten.  Then we will take a carriage and pick up your things.
From now on, you are staying with your consort in Cyad."  She smiles.

"I would hope so."

"You have lecherous thoughts, my dearest of lancers.  Were this not for
the Emperor's enumerators, we would already have departed."

Lorn reaches out and squeezes her hand once more.  "Then, do what you
must."  He pulls out the seat on the side of the desk table and seats
himself, wondering how to tell her what else he must, yet knowing that
he must, for all that he does affects her, and she is in Cyad, where
all are watched, both for power and weakness.

Ryalth continues to page through the sheets before her, occasionally
lifting her pen.  Finally, she signs the last page and looks at Lorn
once more.  "I am done, but you are not."

He nods, then stands and moves toward her, embracing her gently, and
murmuring in her ear as he does, "I am here... and I am most glad to be
so.  Yet... it is because Maran vanished... the Lancer officer of whom
I told you, the one who was a magus.  Commander Meylyd and perhaps the
Majer-Commander of Lancers suspect I managed to remove him-but he was
never found.  He... Maran... kept putting more and more restrictions on
my patrols...."

"He wanted the Forest to kill you...."

Lorn nods, his head against Ryalth's warm cheek.  "Yet... all I do...
it may come to bear upon you...."

"Long have I known that."  She returns his embrace-gently, but more
tightly.  "You stood by me... when none did... you have risked your
ties with your family for me... and always have you kept your word to
me. That you could not do, were you to die."

"You know... for what I hope... and strive... and the dangers..."  he
murmurs, his arms still around her.

"Had you not risked yourself one night, long ago... I might be dead- or
a fearful woman at any trader's beck.  Had you not stood for me to your
family..."  Her lips brush his cheek, and she lays her cheek against
his.  "Now... for what you have done, they see me as I am, not as they
thought I was."

"I worried... about Maran... yet I could see no other course."

"Many worry... few act.  You act, and I will be with you."  Her fingers
tighten around his.  "I will, and never doubt it.  Never."  Her last
word is whispered fiercely.

Whatever will come, whatever will be... they will face it together.
"even if we are thousands of kays apart," Ryalth murmurs.

He holds her tightly, without barriers, without reservations... and her
arms are as firmly around him as his are around hers.

L. E. Modesitt, Jr."  lives in Cedar City, Utah.

TOR BOOKS BY L. E. MODES ITT JR.

THE SAGA OF REC LUCE

1 The Magic of Recluce 2 The Towers of the Sunset 3 The Magic Engineer
4 The Order War 5 The Death of Chaos 6 Fall of Angels 7 The Chaos
Balance 8 The White Order 9 Colors of Chaos 10 Magi'i of Cyandor 11
Scion of Cyandor

THE SPELL SONG CYCLE

The Soprano Sorceress The Spellsong War Darksong Rising

THE ECOLITAN MATTER

The Ecologic Envoy The Ecolitan Operation The Ecologic Secession The
Ecolitan Enigma

THE FOREVER HERO

Dawn for a Distant Earth The Silent Warrior In Endless Twilight

Of Tangible Ghosts The Ghost of the Revelator

The Timegod Timediver's Dawn

The Hammer of Darkness The Parafaith War Adiamante The Green
Progression (with Bruce Scott Levinson)

"Reading any novel in the series invites the reader to fill in the
picture of a tangible setting some critics have compared to Tolkien's
Middle-Earth.  With rounded characters, a fast-moving plot and a
convincing alien world, Colors of Chaos shines in all its facets."
-Amarillo Sunday News-Globe

"Marked by high intelligence.  A powerful, educated, serious, and
understated imagination is plainly at work in this latest entry to a
saga that is beginning to take on the complexity of Robert Jordan's
Wheel of Time cycle."  -Publishers Weekly on Colors of Chaos

$27.95 ($39.95 CAN)

"In a tour de force of characterization, Modesitt paints the other side
of the picture, adding a rare depth and richness to what is already a
landmark fantasy series."  -Romantic Times (4 stars) on Colors of
Chaos

"Modesitt skillfully combines credible characters, an exceptionally
well-realized alien world, plenty of action, and as usual,
philosophical discussions of power and the consequences of its misuse,
into the fast-moving plot."  - VOYA on The White Order

L. E. Modesitt, Jr."  is one of the standard names in fantasy entering
the new decade, and his most famous series is the Saga of Recluce. Each
novel fills in pieces of the history of this land where Chaos and Order
strive to maintain a magical balance.

Magi'i of Cyador marks the beginning of a new tale from deep within the
rich depths of the history of Recluce.  This is the story of Lorn, a
talented boy born into a family of Magi'i.  A fastidious student of
remarkable talent, Lorn lacks the single most coveted attribute
required of a Magus of Cyador: unquestionable loyalty.  Lorn is too
independent for his own good.

So Lorn is forced to become a lancer officer, and he's sent to the
frontier to fight off the all-too-frequent barbarian raids-a career
that comes with a fifty percent mortality rate.  His enemies don't
expect him to survive.... Lorn is a fresh, new character who will
enrich one of the most important fantasy series of the decade: the Saga
of Recluce.

"The author's skill in portraying the humanity of characters who
possess the power to destroy others with a thought adds a level of
verisimilitude and immediacy rarely found in grand-scale fantasy."
-Library Journal on Colors of Chaos

"Another entry in Modesitt's popular Recluce series, one that upholds
the saga's reputation for intelligence and increasing originality....
This volume in the series stands unusually well on its own as a classic
and competent coming of age story."  -Booklist on The White Order

L. E. MODES ITT Jr."  lives in Cedar City, Utah.  Jacket art by Darrell
K. Sweet Jacket design by Carol Russo Design

A TOR HARDCOVER

Tom Doherty Associates, LLC 175 Fifth Avenue New York, NY 10010
www.tor.com Distributed in Canada by H. B. Fenn and Company, Ltd.
Printed in the USA

